


Nothing to Fear but Fear Itself

by PotionMastersBitch



Category: NCIS
Genre: Gay Male Character, Homophobia, M/M, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22532629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotionMastersBitch/pseuds/PotionMastersBitch
Summary: After being mandated into attending therapy to keep his job, Gibbs's life starts to through all sorts of changes - some he's more comfortable with and some that he isn't.
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

Jethro Gibbs was, by nature, a reclusive sort of man, often prone to awkward and unintended outbursts of rudeness when anxious, which he seemed to be more often than not, especially so whilst in the midst of any sort of social setting, no matter how mundane, and unintendedly taciturn while even in the company of those he genuinely enjoyed. And, as a direct result of such deeply ingrained and intrinsic character flaws, he was naturally very keen to keep his _own_ company, in particular he preferred to enjoy it in the relative comfort and quiet of his own home. If not in the comforting darkness and isolation of his basement, where resided the entirety of his boat-making apparatuses, than most certainly tucked away in the genuine comfort of his bed, a cup of hot coffee in one hand and the other occupied with whichever book it was that had happened to capture his notice whilst shopping at his favorite book shop. But while he was, indeed, a creature of habit, and seldom ever convinced to leave his solitude without some work-related matter being the precipitator of such, that was not say that he _couldn’t_ be induced into leaving his self-imposed isolation for mere frivolities on occasion. Particular so whenever aforementioned extracurriculars were insisted upon by the various members of his team, _particularly Tony and Abby,_ and involved something he could reasonably be expected to be entertained by, such as a Tony-approved blockbuster of a movie or just a simple round of bowling or two. It was only on rare occasions, indeed the rarest of them all, that Gibbs ever ventured out in pursuit of his _own_ entertainment purposes, needing no one to first needle him into doing so in the first place.

As it just so happened, that particular Friday evening happened to be one of those occasions. As the infamous Flossy Copper, the author of some of his very favorite novels, Pride and Prejudice naturally being the only exception, was set to make an appearance right there in the city and, not only that, read forth a few lines from the newest of her works as well – a novel that was not yet due to be released for yet another four months at the very earliest, and that was _with_ the aid of a preorder and a hopefully expeditious overseas delivery service.

The only problem with this little planned evening of his, however, was the fact that his much-desired interaction with Ms. Cooper would must need take place at the expense of his oldest and dearest friend, Ducky. A loyal and unassuming man who had, just that very afternoon, requested his presence and companionship at some bizarre lecture on medieval embalmment at a nearby local university that Jimmy, unfortunately, had been kept from attending on the grounds that Brenna really did need a reprieve from minding the teething, and subsequently inconsolably cranky, Victoria. Although, once Gibbs really stopped to think about it, he was all but certain that Kate, if asked, would more than willingly take his place for said event. If not because she was currently quarreling more fiercely than usual with Tony, over some perceived slight he had committed against her the previous evening, the likes of which the accused most heartily denied, than almost certainly because she adored Ducky as a sort of grandfather figure and, as his noted favorite, aside from Jimmy, naturally wished to please him whenever and however she could. Even if, to do so, it meant occasionally forgoing a jolly jaunt to the spa in order to attend a lecture on some obscure topic she didn’t even marginally care about.

But, Gibbs thought, slipping a simple blue sweater over his head, it was much better her than him, as he just didn’t have the heart, or the mental fortitude, to look upon the dead, whether through slides or direct contact, and garner any of the excitement his friend did when it came to deciphering the little ‘clues’ that had been left behind in the organs of such. Having to frequently take a life in the field of duty, he philosophized, was already bad enough – he need not derive any source of enjoyment, no matter how benign, from the aftermath of such carnage. Even in such scenarios that he was not directly involved, such as an anatomy lesson based largely on the examination of a medical cadaver. There was just something about commodifying death, no matter the purpose, that bothered him in a profound way that nothing else could.

_‘But enough of that now,’_ Gibbs thought to himself, hardly enjoying the images that had crept into his mind with such morbid thoughts.

Tonight was meant to be a _personal_ evening, one full of leisure. And work matters, whether current or resolved, would be entirely forbidden to present themselves in his mind for the next few hours. For he meant to thoroughly enjoy himself, his social anxiety be damned. He need not sabotage himself before he had even arrived at his destination. There would surely be plenty enough time for that once he had actually arrived. Although, in a rather rare spirit of wanting to be cooperative with his work-mandated therapist, a caveat he would _never_ forgive Vance for, he resolved to at least try to stave off any potential self-sabotage until the end of the evening neared. That was unless, of course, his anxiety kicked into overdrive and forced him into fleeing the even prematurely. Which it very well might, given that Gibbs had never done all that well in new places, let alone crowds of any substance. But, he wagered, if he could face down half-demented murderers without even breaking into a sweat, much less batting an eye, he could surely manage to contend with a few dozen people in a closed, and subdued, setting – especially so when the reward for doing so was as great as it was. After all, there were precious few things he wouldn’t do in order to listen to Flossy Copper’s monologuing, very few things indeed.

And so it was, with only that meagerest of encouragements coursing through his mind, as well as the added safeguard of a half dose of Xanax, that Gibbs once more ran a quick hand through his hair and shrugged into his only non-work-related jacket before heading out into his garage and climbing up into his antique truck. And although he was, undeniably, more than just a little nervous about having taken his unendorsed additional dosage of medication without the benefit of a medical professional to back him up on such a decision, as his assigned therapist was now pushing for him to remain only on Cymbalta, and to use up what little remained of his Xanax sparingly, and for emergencies only, Gibbs had soon reassured himself with the thought that that all would well so long as he didn’t mix any alcohol with the chemical medley now taking place within his person. And, again, it was only a measly half-dosage – perhaps even less. Just enough to take the proverbial edge off and nothing more. But just leave it to him to become anxious over his anxiety medication.

Fortunately for him, however, as well as for the sake of his already exhausted horn, traffic proved to be surprisingly light within the city for that time of night, with only a minor few driving misdeeds, committed mostly by fresh-faced new drivers, impeding his otherwise smooth progress to _The Closet_. Which, granted, one might think would greatly please him, considering he loathed entirely the very concept of not being at least a full fifteen minutes early to an event he cared about. Unfortunately, however, he contrarily found himself to believe that he had entered the parking lot of the repurposed manor far too soon for his liking, as he felt quite strongly that his Xanax had not yet even begun to take effect by the time he had parked his truck. And though it was, he knew, absolutely ridiculous to be so damned worked up about his arrival to an event he had been so looking forward to, he found himself nonetheless unfathomably distressed and, as a direct result, simply began to procrastinate going inside by virtue of tending to some invisible spot on the sleeve of his sweater. A rather sad display of sheer desperation which, unfortunately, only gave off the impression to unsuspecting passerby’s that he was doing that which ought not be done in a public parking lot, which, in turn, only made his anxiety all the greater. For just the very thought of having the police called on him, as well as the potential for being removed from the property on unjust charges of public indecency, before he could even lay eyes on Flossy Cooper, much less hear her speak, had his gut twisting up painfully – even more so than the thoughts that those who had just walked passed him now surely thought him to be some sort of public exhibitionist could.

It was only when he reached the precipice of experiencing a full-blown panic attack, the origin of which seemed to confirm for him the fact that his own mind was utterly determined to work against him in all things, that Gibbs forcefully jabbed his untrimmed fingernails into the palm of his hands, a bad habit his father had forever been trying to get him to stop doing, ever since he had first developed that nervous little tic as a rather small boy, and forced himself out of the relative safety of his truck, relying heavily upon his stern Marine training to keep his feet moving towards, rather than away, the rather pretty manor now serving as a coffee house and the temporary meeting grounds for the infamous Flossy Cooper.

Much to his temporary relief, no matter how fleeting, when first he walked into the yellow and cheerful foyer, it was to find said room absolutely empty, with nothing more than a handful of era-appropriate furnishings and a few slightly anachronous, but well-made, wooden coat stands the only entities there to greet his entrance into this new little world he had dared to breach for the first time. 

It was only when he pushed open the thick wooden door closing off the heat-evaporating foyer from the rest of the building, that Gibbs realized just how crowded such a cozy little abode could be. For it was not even a full ten steps into the ‘lobby,’ yet another fully-enclosed room, due to the large, yet pretty, windows letting out an enormous amount of hear, that he was forced to come face-to-face with that fact that there was a full fourteen people already in line, behind the old-fashioned counter, for their coffee. And Lord only knew how many other people were already beyond the doors of such a room, and waiting, to see Flossy Cooper. For his sake, he sincerely hoped that the number wasn’t above twenty. As said quantity seemed to his absolute threshold for tolerating crowds of any kind.

Much to his great relief, however, all those before him in the very long line seemed to know what he wanted in advance, with only one seemingly hard-of-hearing elderly man holding up the line as he tried, and failed, to get pay for a four dollar coffee with only half that amount – necessitating that Gibbs reluctantly step in and wave two fingers in front of the old man’s face until he got the picture and paid the barista the correct amount with an apologetic grunt and blush to his wrinkled face.

“Hello!” The rather chipper barista behind the counter greeted him, when at long last he was finally able to approach the counter. “How are you tonight?” 

Although Gibbs was all but certain that the girl in question was far too young to be working the counter, let alone so far into the evening, as she could not have been any more than a very young twelve at most, he stowed away his reservations about putting the preteen to work by allowing himself the assumption that one of her parents likely owned the shop and only ever allowed her to work when she wished to. Or, at the very least, he sincerely hoped that such was the case. Elsewise he would need to track down the parents and have a few words with them.

“I’m fine.” Gibbs allowed, finding it difficult to be terse with a kid so young. “How are you?”

“Great!” The young girl chirped, wide eyes flashing bright with genuine excitement. “I just got a new set of earrings for my birthday! Aren’t they pretty!”

Having, admittedly, been more than just a little thrown off-guard by his bubbly barista’s rare display of heterochromia, and anxious as to whether or not he was inadvertently giving her blue eye more attention than it’s brown companion, Gibbs was very glad for the welcome distraction that being prompted to glance at the young girl’s earrings provided. 

“They’re very lovely.” Gibbs conceded, giving the genuine emerald studs an appreciate nod.

“Thanks!” The chubby-cheeked blonde grinned. “I like your shirt. It makes your eyes look even prettier than they already are.”

While Gibbs would have ordinarily objected to having any portion of his being referred to as ‘pretty,’ given that he had spent almost the entirety of boot camp being referred to as nothing but ‘pretty-boy’ by the sergeants, all of whom had seemed to take an ungodly amount of offense against the fact that he had been absolutely loath to participate in the some of the more unseemly and mannish behaviors that seemed to occur in high frequency in such environs, he found that he could no more take offense from the chipper little thing standing before him than he could from Tony.

“Thanks.” Gibbs mumbled, now feeling a fair deal self-conscious. “But I’d argue that your eyes are a fair deal prettier than my own.”

“Oh, well I don’t know about _that_.” She harrumphed, abruptly subdued as she subconsciously moved a hand to shield her brown eye. “But what can I get you to drink?”

Recognizing the very clear hint that his barista wished for the subject to be changed and moved away from the topic of her heterochromia, Gibbs hastily complied with the act and gave forth his answer as neutrally as possible, not wishing to give off any signs of unfelt resentment or bitterness at having been so brusquely spoken to.

“Just a black coffee.” He requested, not even bothering to read any of the specialties listed on the giant blackboards behind the counter. “The largest size you have.”

Almost looking as if he had just ordered for himself a flaming pile of malodorous dog shit, his pretty little barista blinked quite stupidly at him and frowned, the expression in her eyes still of a friendly nature even as the rest of her face betrayed the great concern she was clearly feeling towards him.

“Are you sure you just want a black coffee?” She pressed. “New customers get the first cup free, you know. And we have some _really_ good – “

“I’d really just like a cup of black coffee.” Gibbs insisted, firm but polite.

“How about a shot of flavor instead?” The little blonde pestered, her considerate persistence a grand testament to her skills behind a counter. “We have all kinds of flavors. Peppermint, spearmint, caramel, raspberry, pumpkin spice – “

“Just surprise me.” Gibbs surrendered, coming to the rather reluctant conclusion that he was not about to get away with ordered a plain black coffee anytime soon. “How about that?”

Looking every bit like the proverbial cat who had just swallowed the canary, and found his meal all the more delicious because of the subterfuge required to earn it, the braid-wearing girl working the counter smiled as widely as the Cheshire Cat himself and nodded eagerly in response to his request.

“Great!” She beamed, eyes shining brightly with genuine excitement. “But you’re not allergic to anything, are you? I don’t want to accidentally kill anyone before I can even apply to colleges.”

“No. I’m not allergic to anything.” Gibbs reassured, reaching into the pocket of his jeans to remove his wallet.

“Oh, the first cup is – “

_“Free.”_ Gibbs finished, his smile an indulgent one. “ _I know._ But that doesn’t necessarily mean that the _labor_ is.”

And, with that, Gibbs fished free from his worn and cracking leather wallet, an old birthday gift from Tony that he absolutely refused to give up, a crisp twenty-dollar bill and tucked it into the little glass mason jar, labeled _tips_ , resting near the register. For while such a gesture might very well seem a bit obscene to other, more miserly individuals, Gibbs thoroughly enjoyed tipping those who served very well. Knowing, as he did, from the experience of working in his father’s shop during his youth, just how awful public service jobs could be at times. And, if his temporary joy regarding the matter was only increased upon learning, on virtue of her name being beautifully scrawled out beneath the word _tip_ , that his friendly little barista was named _Cassidy_ , well, there was hardly anything wrong with that, was there?

“Oh no,” Cassidy immediately pleaded, looking both delighted and uncomfortable all at once. “I couldn’t – it’s too much. _Really._ There’s no need for – “

“Consider it another birthday gift.” Gibbs interrupted.

“But – “

“Not buts.” Gibbs denied with a small smile.

Looking as if she had just been gifted 200 dollars, rather than the more modest 20, Cassidy blinked rapidly and sniffled softly before simply nodding her surrender.

“Go on and find a seat.” She encouraged. “I’ll have your coffee out to you in a moment.”

“I can wait.” Gibbs insisted, not wanting to make her go through all the trouble of serving him when she’d very likely have yet another line full of customers in just a moment.

“Oh no, you had best go on in if you want to find a good seat.” Cassidy insisted. “Flossy Cooper is going to be here in half an hour, you know.”

“I – “

Already turned around to face one of the very man coffee urns standing proudly behind her, Cassidy cut short his denial without even bothering to listen to the explanation that it was, in fact, a perjurious denial of his desire to both see and listen to Flossy Cooper. 

“The Grand Parlor.” She directed, gesturing vaguely to the door separating the lobby from the remainder of the manor. “Right through the door. Go on now, claim a seat before it’s too late. You won’t want to be standing for the full two hours.”

Feeling as if he was somehow being summarily dismissed, although not for being out of hand, but rather in some misguided gesture of kindness, Gibbs shifted uncomfortably and stalled for time by needlessly retying the dirty laces of his boots before slowly, and reluctantly, moving towards the aforementioned door and turning the genuine silver knob with his suddenly sweaty fingers.

It was to his great regret, as well as his slowly growing horror, that he found the room to be, while remarkably pretty and period-appropriate, to be already quite full, with nearly the entirety of the antique couches and settees, as well as chairs, to be claimed by any number of the myriad patrons, leaving the only option left for seating a rather splintery looking stool located near the loudly roaring fireplace at the front of the room - it’s rough status and unfavorable location making it only a rather reluctant option in Gibbs’s eyes, as anything that put him in the direct center of attention was something he was keen, as a rule, to avoid. But, as matters currently stood, the brisk spring weather was wreaking absolute havoc of his bum knee and that, coupled with his burning desire to see Flossy Clopper in person, was more than sufficient a motivator for his to accept the subpar seating. And, so it was, with a rather resigned and disappointed sense of being, as well as a certain amount of rising dread, that Gibbs shuffled over to the understandably shunned stool as slowly and discretely as possible, hoping against hope, all the while, that such an act would attract absolutely no sort of attention unto himself despite the fact that his cerulean sweater was, in hindsight, unfortunately, comparatively bright when compared to the rest of the clothing everyone was currently wearing.

“Do you mind?!” A younger man hissed, accosting Gibbs just as soon as his ass had hit the splintery surface of the stool. “I was sitting there.”

Sensing no legitimate source of deception in the younger man’s voice, only a very ridiculous amount of impatience and anger, and likewise not wishing to create a scene that would put him in the direct center of attention, especially not when doing so could get him booted from the establishment before Flossy Cooper could even arrive, Gibbs simply left the man cowering, via the utilization of one of his most powerful glares, and sulked off, fully resigned to the fate of having to stand in the back of the room, yet grateful that he was at least tall enough that such an ordeal wouldn’t be _too_ onerous. Well, at least not to his _eyes_. His throbbing knee was quite another story altogether.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” A concerned voice stalled him, right as he moved past a beautifully upholstered couch. “Flossy Cooper will be here any second now!” 

Had it been any other day, Gibbs might very well have, in a fit of social phobia-induced anxiety, hissed at the woman and informed her, none too politely, that he would damn well leave the premises if that was what he chose to do. Fortunately, for _both_ their sakes, however, it was with the utilization of some of the new coping methods he had learned in therapy, as well as by concentrating on the softness of hand grabbing his own, and not on his feelings of panic, that Gibbs found himself able to minimize some of his anxiety-induced anger. And, despite his great aversion for meeting strangers, he actually found himself stopping and turning his face in order to investigate just who it was who had dared to grab at an angry man’s hand without any hesitation of concern for themselves.

“Sit.” His friendly captor directed, scooching over on the couch she sat in to make room for him betwixt herself and her companion.

But, for as much as Gibbs would have loved to accept the proffered seat, given that his wonky knee really was troubling him greatly that evening, an uncomfortable factoid that was not helped at all by his sky-high anxiety, just the thought of potentially being forced to make small talk with not only one, but two, new people, whom he knew absolutely nothing about, turned his off the idea just as quickly as meat turned him off a meal.

“I don’t want to impose – “

“If it was an imposition, we wouldn’t have asked.” His captor’s friend rather bluntly remarked, boldly seizing his other arm before tugging him down unto the couch with a surprising strength. “Now sit. _Before_ some dumbass kid comes along and thinks he can sit here without getting slugged.”

“ _Blythe_ ,” Her companion squawked, looking beyond mortified, “Stop _manhandling_ people. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I wasn’t _manhandling_.” The blunter of the two women denied. 

“Well, he’s a man.” The more diplomatic of them answered. “And you _just_ handled him.”

Obviously harboring no clear inclination to further along the burgeoning quarrel with her friend, or perhaps simply realizing that she had, in fact, been in the wrong, even _if_ her intentions had been good in nature, the pixie-wearing blonde gave Gibbs a quick once over, and what might have been considered an apologetic grunt, before turning back to face her friend.

“He seems sturdy enough to me.” Blythe defended, her tone of a stubborn yet reconciliatory nature. “One little yank isn’t going to traumatize him.”

“Still,” Her friend pouted, “You can’t just yank on people like that. You’re a lot stronger than you think you are. You’re going to hurt somebody one of these days.”

“He seems to have survived my assault terribly well, Alice.” Blythe calmly sallied, once more giving Gibbs a quick once over to check that she had not, in fact, caused him any significant harm. “But all the same, I won’t do it again so long as he doesn’t provoke me.” 

It was only by glancing discreetly at Blythe’s face, and espying the sardonic smile that rested upon such, that Gibbs realized that the unfiltered woman was only joking, as her tone, alone, had brooked no hint at all of any such playfulness.

“I really didn’t mean to be that rough.” The gray-eyed woman insisted, seeming at least a tiny bit remorseful for her earlier behavior. “But you needed a seat and we had one. That’s all. There was no sense in being so stupid about it.”

More than just a little affronted by Blythe’s unwavering candor, yet strangely almost appreciative of it at the same time, Gibbs couldn’t even find it within his person to be angry at his former assailant, as he, himself, was also known to speak in a similar fashion without realizing just how gruff it made him sound.

“Thank you, I guess.” Gibbs responded in kind, not really knowing what else to say.

He had, after all, never been gifted with the blessing of making effortless small talk with strangers – not like his mother had. Anne Gibbs, he thought to himself, could have almost befriended Satan himself, should they have ever come across one another, had not her innate sense of stubbornness and unyielding fieriness not been enough to drive him away from her.

“I’m Alice, by the way.” The calmer of the two women finally interjected, taking it upon herself to disperse some of the awkwardness with introductions.

This Alice was, as anyone with even marginally functioning sight could note, a traditionally pretty and overtly feminine sort of woman, either of Gibbs’s age or only a few years younger, and possessing of a collection of soft facial features that were only further rendered delicate by the well-maintained curtain of thick, mink-colored, hair that flowed heavily down to her skinny waist. Meanwhile Blythe, on the other hand, while certainly pretty in her own rights, was possessive of sharper and more angular features which, when coupled with her seemingly habitually unsmiling face, seemed to give off an inadvertent air of hostility that Gibbs greatly suspected nobody could genuinely feel without combusting. Although, all things considered, he had to own that Blythe was perhaps not the most fitting of names for said woman. 

“And this is Blythe,” Alice continued, determined to force a comradery, “My partner.”

“Jethro.” Gibbs mumbled, the informal name sounding almost strange to his ears.

And whilst Gibbs had never been one to rely on facial stereotypes, given that he was often the victim of people’s assumptions that he was the worst kind of asshole, with only one glance at his face, he had to admit that he was genuinely surprised to discover that Blythe’s hands were far softer than Alice’s.

“Do you two work in a law firm, then?” Gibbs asked, relying upon the first of the basic pointers Ducky had once given him for making enjoyable small talk.

“No.” Blythe frowned, giving him an incredulous look. “We’re _partners_.”

“Cops?” Gibbs guessed again, sensing keenly that he was already wrong.

“Honey, _no_.” Alice frowned, shaking her head. “We’re _lesbians_.”

Entirely unprepared for such an answer, given that neither half of said couple had displayed any real sort of romantic affection towards one another, at least not any that he could reasonably deduce, Gibbs stiffened uncomfortably and found himself fighting to keep down the bile rapidly raising in his throat.

“You do know that this is a gay bar, don’t you?” Alice inquired.

If Gibbs had felt any sort of resentment, or irritation, at being spoken to so patronizingly, as if he were some sort of small child, rather than a full grown adult, he certainly didn’t register such as a cold, and unrelenting panic, quickly began to flood through the entirely of his body and paralyze him. For he had entered a gay bar, _a fucking gay bar_ , completely ignorant and, worse yet, woefully unprepared. Which was, in his opinion, not much better than a recovering alcoholic entering a liquor store or a diabetic a candy shop. In fact, he would almost say it was _worse_. As nobody was very like to get assaulted or demeaned for being caught in either of such establishments – even if, by doing so, they were behavior in manners entirely detrimental to their health. _Jesus Christ_ , what the hell had he been thinking?! Of course _The Closet_ was a gay bar, of course it was. The proof was all in the name for crying out loud! And, as if that missed sign weren’t already enough to confirm his gross stupidly, the fact that said establishment was hosting Flossy Cooper, one of the most infamous political lesbians out there, certainly was.

But, even worse than the concept of coming to terms with his own unforgivable stupidity, which was already bad enough, was the horrible and all-encompassing sense of dread and panic that came with the terrible realization that people, as a result of this great and unsalvageable error, were going to know that which he had worked so very hard to conceal and that which boot camp, and the sadistic sergeants who had run such at the time, had flat out terrorized and conditioned out of him. And he hadn’t even intentionally committed this great folly, a fact that made the blow of such an ordeal sting all the worse.

“Jethro,” Alice fussed, her gentle voice sounding oddly far away, “Are you alright? You look really pale!”

Far too preoccupied with the rather taxing project of trying to keep his minor panic attack from developing into a more serious version of such, an unsavory outcome that would only end with him vomiting profusely before passing out, Gibbs couldn’t even nod or shake his head in response to Alice’s concerned question.

“Blythe,” Alice hissed, still sounding rather far away, “ _Do something.”_

It was only when Gibbs felt a rather severe stinging in his left cheek, followed shortly bey another, and the another, that his ability to breathe violently returned to him – followed shortly by the remainder of his mental faculties. Which, had he been in almost any other situation, would have been a rather welcome thing. But, as matters currently stood, Gibbs could only will a return to the panic-induced deafness as he slowly, and reluctantly, came to terms with the fact that the two women sitting near to him now surely thought him to be crazy.

_“Blythe!”_ Alice reprimanded, looking horrified.

“He _needed_ it!” Blythe defended.

“Slapping people is _not_ an appropriate treatment for – “ 

Although Gibbs was fully aware of the fact that it was considered rude to interrupt people, particularly when doing so could be reasonably avoided, he found himself speaking before he even really knew what he was about to say.

“I need to go.” He babbled, still feeling sick to his stomach. “I – I need to go.”

But, if he thought the strong sensation of nausea would abate by standing, an act he had hoped would force his brain to concentrate on something else, he was sadly mistaken – and very nearly paid the price for it as his stomach cramped painfully in response and threatened to expel the contents of his breakfast all over Alice’s pure white boots.

“You can’t leave.” Alice protested, this time the one to yank him back down. “You look ready to pass out, for God’s sake!”

His senses still not fully returned to their pre-panic proportions, Gibbs didn’t even really feel the sensation of his ass coming back into contact with the cushions of the couch. Although, in hindsight, he was still clever enough in this stunned state so as to not give any signs of such numbness to the slap-happy Blythe.

“I’m not – I can’t be here.” Gibbs insisted, his tongue dry and heavy in his mouth. “I’m not – I’m not gay.”

_That_ particular shortcoming, he reflected, had been done away with via the aid of some pretty terrifying, and outright abusive, drill sergeants and officer-sanctioned blanket parties. One could not simply remain a queer, and survive, in those types of environs – no matter _how_ tenacious and brave they had been in the beginning. He had only been a young man at the time, after all, hardly more than a skinny teenager fresh out of high school. How could he _not_ leave unaffected, when men almost thrice his age had lost their minds on the battle fields of Vietnam?

“Jethro,” Alice pressed, nervous yet brave, “You don’t need to be. You can be here just for the show. It’s alright.”

While Gibbs could just _tell_ that Alice was patronizing him, and didn’t even believe a single word of his denials, the feeling of her soft hand laying atop his own was more than enough to do away with any anger he might have felt in response to such coddling. Because even if Alice was doing him a great injustice by choosing not to believe a word he said, such an act had only been done out of kindness, and not a desire to humiliate or demean him.

“I really need to go.” He insisted, hating himself for his cowardice.

“Look,” Blythe growled, wrapping a strong hand around his wrist, “What are you so fucking afraid of? Nobody here is going to out you, not without putting themselves in the line of fire, too.”

While was still absolutely determined to leave that place as quickly as possible, Gibbs had to allow for the fact that Blythe’s argument made a great deal of sense. For what man, or woman, would ever be stupid enough to risk their own reputations just to ruin his? And, all things considered, he had the benefit of an investigative job on _his_ side, a thing that granted him a great amount of culpable deniability. Who was to say that he wasn’t simply doing some undercover work, should a blackmailer actually present themselves? 

“And it’s _Flossy Cooper_.” Alice reminded; her tone much softer than that of her partner’s. “You don’t want to miss that, do you? She almost _never_ comes to America.”

Although nearly every last fiber of Gibbs’s being was calling violently out for him to flee, and return to the relative comfort and safety of his home, and likewise pleading with him to give into the rather strong temptation to down a rather copious amount of bourbon after he had done so, just the highly scandalizing thought of missing out on something so momentous as a rare Flossy Copper visit had him recoiling, and protesting against such irrational urges almost immediately – perhaps, for the very first time in his not overly-short life, not allowing his adult onset social anxiety to impede enjoyment of a thing. Because really, he thought to himself, why make such a fuss over such a simple, and innocent, outing? It was not as if his queerness could suddenly just resurface, let alone return, in the face of so mild a temptation. He had, after all, worked far too diligently and stringently to purge himself of that particular evil in the later years of his adolescence. So, of course, it only stood to reason that he would be able to get through the following two hours perfectly fine, and _without_ any damage being done to his heterosexuality. He _would_ , he told himself, get through this evening entirely unscathed. If not to prove to himself, once and for all, that his childhood queerness had been done away with for good, via a pretty hellish experience in a war-time boot camp, then at the very least just for the pleasure of listening to Flossy Cooper’s matchless monologuing. There could be, he rationalized, absolutely no perverse temptations that arose from so innocent an affair.

“Are you good now, or do I need to slap you again?” Blythe demanded, once she had sensed that he was no longer panicking.

His cheek still smarting greatly from the first two blows, and likely in very real danger of bruising the following day, Gibbs frowned and shot the unrepentant manhandler a rather sour expression.

“Don’t slap me again.” He warned, holding up a hand to his still-warm cheek.

“Then don’t do whatever… _that_ was, again.” Blythe calmly countered. “But for real, are you good now? You looked really pale a moment ago.” 

Not having even the slightest motivation to explain to two strangers the intricacies of his social phobias, nor even the appropriate words to describe such, should the unlikely desire to do so present itself, Gibbs forced his body language and tone to affect a disinterested apathy that he didn’t truly feel.

“I just had a dizzy spell, that’s all.” He beguiled, feeling guilty all the while.

Even without feeling the weight of their dubious expressions resting on his face, Gibbs wouldn’t have needed to turn and look in their faces to know that they didn’t believe him.

“If you’re going to lie to us, you could at least have the decency to buy the next round of coffee.” Blythe retorted, her tone scolding but her smile playful.

“You _just_ assaulted me – _twice_.” Gibbs calmly sallied. “If anything, I should make _you_ recompensate _me_.”

“That’s not very chivalrous of you, Jethro.” Blythe pouted, playing the part of an offended matron very well.

By that point in time feeling as if he had somehow, miraculously, established some sort rapport with the blunt blonde sitting directly beside him, in spite of his gross social incompetence, and his generally off-putting facial, yet natural, facial expression, Gibbs allowed himself the dangerous freedom of responding to said woman’s playful banter with a small measure of his own, yet similar, humor.

“I hardly think you’d appreciate some random man making the presumption that he ought to pay for your coffee.” Gibbs retorted, making his tone an equally priggish one. 

It was only when Gibbs took note of Blythe’s rather full lips marginally turning up at the corners, in a very clear response to his own contribution to the banter at hand, that he finally allowed himself to relax a slight fraction – the knowledge that he hadn’t somehow, irreversibly, misstepped in this unfamiliar, and slightly frightening, type of interaction a very powerful and much-needed reassurance, indeed.

“I see you’re miserly, too.” Blythe sniffed, giving off an air of superiority that Gibbs knew she did not truly feel.

“Excuse me,” Gibbs rebuttled, “But I believe _you’re_ the one begging coffee off a complete stranger.”

“Oh,” Blythe sniffed, “And here I was, thinking we were friends.”

Not even daring to allow himself to hope that the making of a new friend had been at all that easy, given that his long stint as a socially crippled adult had taught him that was such was statistically not the case, or at least not for the likes of him, anyways, Gibbs took Blythe’s statement at face value and refused to allow himself to think that the implication of friendship had been anything but a playful farce. But that did not necessarily mean that Gibbs couldn’t enjoy their little verbal spar for it was – a rather welcome diversion whilst they, all three of them, impatiently awaited the arrival of Flossy Cooper.

“I’d be lying if I said I was eager to claim friendship with a woman so eager to slap.” Gibbs responded, only half-joking.

“I’m not eager to slap.” Blythe refuted. “I only ever do so out of a sense of duty.”

Thinking, to himself, that Blythe had come to the conclusion that slapping was the best method for startling someone out of a panic attack far too quickly for her claims to be entirely true, Gibbs only frowned in response to that little bit of malarkey before moving the conversation unto a safer, yet similar, path.

“And are you a very dutiful sort of woman, Blythe?” Gibbs good-naturedly goaded.

“I take certain duties very seriously, yes.” The skinny blonde confirmed, with a theatrically pompous tone.

“Like the slapping of men.” Gibbs wryly suggested.

And, in an effort to increase the potency of his only marginally playful scolding, Gibbs pointedly laid one of his hands against his still slightly stinging cheek. Although, judging from the disinterested expression that such an act engendered on behalf his assaulter, his efforts had been for naught, as Blythe seemed far more amused by her strength than properly chastised.

“Grudges aren’t very flattering, Jethro.” Blythe lectured, rather primly.

“Neither are bruises.” Gibbs calmly rebuttled.

“Are you so very vain?” Blythe returned, her sardonic smile making it quite clear that she already knew to the answer to that particular question.

“Are you so very humble?” Gibbs sallied, likewise also suspecting that he already had the answer.

“Exceedingly so.” Blythe asserted, with just the slightest hint of a smirk. “But that’s not my only attribute.” 

“Of course not.” Gibbs graciously allowed, putting on a smirk of his own.

But what Blythe had been about to say, in response to such a heatless barb, Gibbs would never get the opportunity to know, as only a mere few seconds after her full lips had parted, a smiling Cassidy appeared before them all with a large mug of steaming coffee in one of her small hands and a small baggie of Jodekager Cookies in the other – both of which she eagerly pressed upon Gibbs with all the fervor and excitement of a small child presenting their favorite uncle, or aunt, with a drawing to hang on their fridge or an ornament to hang on their Christmas tree. An act which, while slightly jarring, considering the exceedingly short duration of their insignificant relationship, was more than just a little flattering, given that Gibbs had long since become resigned to the fact that his face, alone, was often enough to make people shun him.

“What’s all this now?” Gibbs asked, referring to the small parcel of Jewish Cookies.

“Jodekager!” Cassidy beamed. “I had some left over from my birthday and I thought I’d share.”

More than just a little touched by such innocent generosity, given that the presence of such in his life was rare indeed, Gibbs accepted the small bag of cookies as reverently as if he were receiving communion.

“Thank you.” Gibbs expressed, settling the cookies unto his lap. “But aren’t you afraid of making all the other customers jealous?”

Without missing so much as beat, the bubbly young barista responded: “I’m not responsible for the feelings of other people.”

Gibbs was pleased to realize, judging from the slight monotony of her tone, that such a phrase had seemingly been repeated quite often to the generous little girl. As he felt it was rather important, especially in today’s world, for girls to know that they were obligated to be ‘nice’ to others, particularly men, just because their mothers had been socialized to do so. After all, he knew better than most the dire consequences that could befall a young woman conditioned to please even the most unsettling of men.

“Well, thank you.” Gibbs smiled, stealing a sip of his coffee. “These are some of my favorites.”

Although, as to whether or not he strictly enjoyed the strong notes of peppermint in his otherwise plain black coffee remained to be seen.

“I added some peppermint flavor.” Cassidy unnecessarily explained, mistaking Gibbs’s initial alarm for confusion. “I thought you might like it. All the cute ones do.”

While Gibbs did, most certainly, take more than just a little umbrage with being referred to as ‘cute,’ an age-old grievance he had quickly developed during his time at bootcamp, and as a lowly military grunt, a hellish time during which he was only addressed as ‘cutie,’ or, in the case of the more creative officers, ‘Shakespeare,’ due to the poems he’d been caught sending home to his father, he found it exceedingly difficult to be angry at the innocent Cassidy for referring to him as such – even as Blythe snorted in evident amusement and Alice barked out a false cough that failed to conceal her own mirth where regarded such a concept. After all, it had only been a childish observation she had made, a nebulous concept no doubt inspired by all the fickle and capricious theorems and hypotheses that seemed to govern the preteen years – and _not_ just simply a vicious and derogatory condemnation meant to castigate him and make him a pariah. 

“It’s fine, thank you.” Gibbs acknowledged, taking another tentative sip of the flavored coffee.

Much to his great surprise, as well as his slight annoyance, upon his tentative second try of the flavored coffee, Gibbs discovered that the coffee really wasn’t _all_ that awful, after all. In fact, it was almost _good_. But, again, he would never admit such a thing out loud, not to anyone. Least of all to Tony, whom he constantly teased for his habitual ordering of cappuccinos and specialty drinks.

“Can I get you anything else?” Cassidy prompted, as polite as she was friendly.

“Why don’t you do me a favor and get these two a refill?” Gibbs suggested.

“Right away.” Cassidy nodded, flashing him a brilliant smile before hurrying off to do as bid.

Gibbs was just reaching a hand into the small baggie of cookies, fully intent on sharing his bounty with his couchmates, when Blythe assailed him with a rather mischievous expression and peppered him with more light-hearted razzing.

“Such poor manners.” She tutted, shaking her head. “Most gentlemen would have offered to share.”

“I already paid for your coffee.” Gibbs denied, pointedly taking an overly long bite of his first cookie.

And it was not just out of a capricious desire to be playful that Gibbs kept the small portion of cookie in his mouth longer than was strictly necessary – as the confectionary really was quite delicious and, perhaps, even better than those of his long-deceased grandmother’s. 

“Isn’t giving its own reward?” Blythe queried, quickly losing patience with his slow chewing.

“I don’t see _you_ doling out any gifts here.” Gibbs countered.

“I let you sit in prime real estate, Jethro.” Blythe debated. “That has to be worth at least two of those cookies.”

“ _Well”,_ Gibbs thought, “ _She certainly had him there.”_

But, rather than give her the immense satisfaction of being the first one offered a share of his coveted treats, Gibbs first held the bag out towards Alice before repositioning it nearer to Blythe.

“I can’t help but notice how you took the biggest ones for yourself.” Blythe sniffed, unwilling to surrender.

“I deserve them.” Gibbs asserted, accepting the unfair accusation in the interest of keeping their little tete-a-tete going. “I’ve had one hell of a day.”

Gibbs was not exaggerating for sympathy, either. As not only had he been shot at, and nicked on the shoulder blade, by a deranged officer high on mild horse tranquilizers, so too had Tony and Kate been squabbling more than usual that morning and afternoon. And, if that had not been bad enough already, Tim had gotten some unexpected phone call from his father earlier that day and had been acting squirrely and on-edge ever since, practically jumping out of his skin whenever Gibbs so much as glanced in his direction or spoke to him. A behavioral change which was especially infuriating considering the fact that Gibbs, in a sudden fit of paternalism, had not too long ago that he was going to ween the younger man into his little work family and remove from him the stain of ‘probie’ while doing so.

“My day wasn’t all that great, either.” Blythe contributed, refusing to grant him any sort of leverage in their mock squabble.

“Did you get shot at by an AWOL lieutenant?” Gibbs challenged.

“No, but did _you_ step in a puddle and get your favorite pair of socks wet?” 

Seeing as how Blythe was only teasing him, and not in any real way suggesting that her mild discomfort was legitimately comparable to his experience of being shot at, Gibbs allowed the cheekiness to go unrebuked and played along.

“Clearly yours was the more traumatic.” He agreed.

“Clearly.” Blythe echoed, looking quite satisfied.

And from there, a friendly and natural sort of break in the conversation occurred, with they, all three of them, simply nibbling happily on the cookies Cassidy had provided and otherwise enjoying the great warmth and comfort the nearby fireplace provided them. In fact, it wasn’t until their small store of treats was very nearly gone, depleted in part mostly by Gibbs and Blythe, that Alice sat up a bit and spoke for the first time in a good many minutes.

“Jethro,” The dainty woman prompted, “What is it that you do for a living?”

“I work the NCIS.” Gibbs answered, perfectly succinct.

Although, after stealing only one quick glance at Alice’s nonplussed face, Gibbs quickly deduced that a little clarification was called for.

“I investigate crimes for the Navy.” Gibbs considerately extrapolated.

“Oh,” Alice smiled, “Were you actually _in_ the Navy, too?”

Not at all a very vainglorious type of person, not even during his time as a somewhat spoiled only child, Gibbs found himself almost reluctant to answer Alice’s innocent question, as he had found, much to his great chagrin and consternation, that the vast majority of people tended to idolize anyone who had ever served in the military – regardless of whether or not they were actually deserving of such accolades. And while Gibbs was certainly of the earnest, yet, humble opinion that he was actually deserving of his war medals, unlike the war-crime committing officers he had been forced to serve under during Vietnam, just the very thought of being crooned over for doing all that his conscription demanded of him was enough to make his skin crawl and his stomach ache.

“The Marines, actually.” Gibbs reluctantly, and humbly, corrected.

Thankfully, for the sake of Gibbs’s relative comfort, Alice didn’t gush over that little tidbit of news like most women, and even a few overly patriotic men, would have done. Rather she seemed only politely interested at best, her manners of such a fine quality that even if she _had_ been faking her attentiveness with the conversation at hand, Gibbs would certainly have never been any the wiser. Blythe, however, on the other hand, looked almost…terse upon his hearing his answer, as if Gibbs had just confessed to being a former hitman or loan shark rather than a former military grunt. But, Gibbs reasoned, a _lot_ of people were still rightfully upset about the travesty that had occurred in Vietnam, not to mention the people who had enabled such crimes to occur in the first place. That Gibbs was entirely innocent, where regarded the carrying out of such war crimes, was entirely beside the point and not at all worth bringing up at the moment. Not only because Blythe hadn’t actually come out and given voice to such particular grievances, but so too because Gibbs strongly felt as if he hardly had any business invalidating her opinion on the subject – especially so when the duration of their acquaintance had been so very brief. There would always be time, Gibbs rationalized, to exculpate himself of such silent accusations at a later, more appropriate, time should their fledgling relationship move towards the creation of a legitimate friendship.

“Well don’t go spreading that news around here,” Blythe advised, a marked scowl on her face, “Or you’ll have half the coffee shop fighting over you.”

“Gay men _love_ a man in uniform.” Alice declared, fully secure in her conviction.

While Gibbs couldn’t necessarily argue against such claims without first giving off the erroneous impression that he was somehow gay himself, which he most certainly _wasn’t_ , even he had to admit, to himself, that there was just something universally pleasing about cowboy clothing and regency attire. But, rather than dwell on those dangerous thoughts for overly long, and thus risk the resurgence of his homosexuality, Gibbs quickly shooed them from his mind and asked a question of his own – hoping to steer the conversation back to much safer topics. 

“What is it that you do, Alice?”

“Nothing now, really.” The slender woman answered, still nibbling away at her first cookie. “But I used to work on a lobster boat.”

While Gibbs was not, in any real way, a sexist sort of individual, given that he had grown up under the care of two rather progressive parents, he still found that he could not help but look upon Alice with surprise in response to her answer. As not only did said woman appear slight enough to be knocked over be even the slightest of breezes, not to mention toppled overboard by the littlest of waves, so too did her pale complexion look as if it would erupt in painful blisters with only the slightest of provocations from the sun. And, if all those caveats were not already seemingly prohibitory enough, just the fact that lobster boating was largely seen as a man’s jobs, especially so thirty or forty years ago, most certainly was.

“I worked on my Granddaddy’s boat.” Alice elaborated, clearly sensing his confusion.

Well, Gibbs thought to himself, that certainly explained things. As there just no way in hell that a man, let alone a whole entire crew of them, would have allowed a woman to work with, or for, all those years ago – at least not without some pretty heavy nepotism first being involved.

“How about you, Blythe?” Gibbs prompted. “What do you do for a living?”

“I played the violin in an orchestra for a while.” Blythe volunteered.

Somewhat musically gifted himself, particularly so where regarded the violin and chordophone family of instruments, Gibbs was just about to inquire a little further into that line of conversation, intent on discovering her preferred playing pieces, when Alice spoke up and removed all opportunity for him to do so.

“She was also in the Airforce.” Alice confided, looking proud. “At least for a while.”

“How – “

“Just a few years.” Blythe interrupted, suddenly terse once more. “That’s all.”

Understanding that some people were just simply traumatized from their time in the service, particularly the things that might have occurred during their active duty, especially so in the midst of Vietnam, Gibbs refrained from pressing the retiree any further and simply excused her brusque behavior with the knowledge that she it was only her discomfort making her speak so curtly.

“How long have you been playing violin?” Gibbs inquired instead.

“Since I was eight.” Blythe answered, seeming to soften. “Do you play?”

“I can.” Gibbs replied. “But I’m more a piano type person.”

Truthfully, however, it was actually the _harp_ that was Gibbs’s favorite instrument. But there was just no goddamn way in hell that he would ever willingly admit such, least of all in the company of two women who had so clearly thought it absolutely fucking hilarious that their barista had regarded him as something cute – i.e. feminine. 

“I never had the proper finger length required for piano playing.” Blythe frowned, holding up her (somewhat) stubby fingers as proof.

Although Gibbs was of the learned opinion that a piano could be played by those of any finger length, given that even the youngest of children were able to be taught beginner scales, he greatly suspected that Blythe would be far too stubborn to accept such reassurances and, given such, opted to remain mute on the subject.

“What about you, Alice?” Gibbs asked instead. “Can you play anything?”

“I was only in band for two weeks before the director asked me to drop the class.” Alice confessed with a blush. “I have no sense of rhythm.”

“Her talents lay more with gardening.” Blythe asserted. “And meat smoking.”

Having always admired all the work and dedication that went into gardening, particularly so where regarded the maintaining of a larger selection of flowers and/or vegetables, Gibbs was just about to ask a few questions about the type of assortment that might be found in Alice’s private garden when said woman spoke up, once more, and prevented him from doing so. 

“It’s true.” The dark-haired woman conceded, clearly very proud of talents. “You’ll have to try my brisket someday.”

While Gibbs was, of course, quite flattered by such a generous offer, given that he had only just met the woman, and already she was offering him gifts of food, it was with great regret that he found he had to decline the offer, as just the thought of sampling any quantity of meat, no matter how small, was abhorrent to him. Not only because he had learned, quite the hard way, that bacon and other such meats smelled the same as napalm-burned flesh, which had turned him off of pork even more than he had already been by that point, but so too because he had learned, as a very small boy, to love _all_ animals, domestic or not. A somewhat innate trait which, at the time, had started out with him, as a precocious five-year-old, rescuing an orphaned crow and raising it to adulthood – learning, as a result, just how alive and feeling even the ugliest of animals could be. And after all that, there was just no way in hell that Gibbs would ever eat anything that had a mother, let alone a face.

“Thank you, but I don’t eat meat.” Gibbs explained, already bracing himself for the angry tirade that would surely follow such a contrarian declaration.

Because, rest assured, his very many years as a strict vegetarian had shown him, almost invariably, that people would, inevitably, become absurdly outraged about his dietary abstinence upon learning of it. 

“I smoke cheese, too.” Alice offered, thankfully unoffended by his denial. “…If you’re not vegan.”

“I’m not vegan.” Gibbs confirmed, much too fond of chocolate for that to ever be true.

And, again, so long as no animals were actively being killed or injured for the obtaining of his treats, Gibbs had absolutely no qualms, whatsoever, about profiting from the labor of humanely treated animals.

“Good.” Alice smiled. “Because you don’t want to miss out on my smoked – “

But what type of smoked cheese the slender woman had been about to reference as her masterpiece, Gibbs would never know, as just a mere few seconds after parting her lips, an excited voice cried out from somewhere near the back of the room and distracted them all.

“She’s here!”


	2. Chapter 2

Flossy Cooper was, just as Gibbs had always expected her to be, very nearly perfect in person. Not only in appearance, what with her ankle-length gray hair and dark brown eyes, but also aura wise – her very spirit giving for an air of effortless authority yet, at the very same time, likewise giving off a very strong vibe of grandmotherly maternalism that somehow belied the somewhat natural severity of her wrinkled face. And, in fact, had Gibbs been in any way inclined towards believing in the existence of any sort of deity, or supernatural entity, he might very well have even likened the elderly woman to a veritable goddess, one who was creator of legend and all things worth reading. Alice, however, had a far less eloquent response to being in the presence of such sheer perfection.

_“She’s so damn tall.”_ Alice whispered, nearly bug-eyed as Ms. Cooper took to the front of the room. _“She’s not even wearing heels.”_

While it was, indeed, a rather fair observation, given that Ms. Cooper clearly stood at what was, at the very least, a solid six feet, if not more, all _Gibbs_ could focus on was the red leather-bound book resting in said woman’s heavily wrinkled hands. Because, self-ascribed bibliophile that was, just the very thought that the manuscript he had been dying to get his hands on for the last year, the very final book in his favorite trilogy, was so very nearby was enough to discomfort him and make his stomach sick with anticipation. For not only did that thick tome contain within all the answers as to whether or not the young mademoiselle Captain Sinclair had rescued from the hands of her pirate of a father in the previous book would rise to the challenge of joining polite society as the wife-to-be of a very wealthy and established gentleman, so too would it answer his relentless questions as to how Captain Carter might react should word get out that his loyal first mate, a man who had saved his life on many occasions, had become involved in a rather scandalous and forbidden affair with his younger brother. Not that such a particular plot held any personal interest for him, of course. It was just that his mind refused to be settled until _all_ such points were resolved. He honestly couldn’t care any less about whether or not such a clandestine relationship was ended by duel, the end result of which could only result in the inevitable termination of brotherly affection or boyfriendly adoration. In fact, that particular potential scenario held no more interest for him than did the question as to whether or not Beatrice Granger, that miserable wretch, had anything to do with the arson that had destroyed Captain Carter’s docked ship. In fact, had he to choose only one storyline to be resolved, he would opt for the later, even though, as a rule, the vast majority of people, even straight men, would select the former.

_“Jethro, you’re staring.”_ Alice censured, roughly pinching him on the arm.

Of fucking course he was staring, Gibbs wanted to rebuttal. He was sitting in the presence of a literary master, after all – a venerable woman entirely responsible for keeping his once young, and impossibly lonely self, preoccupied and distracted with stories chockful of adventure and intrigue whilst all the other boys his age, who had already decided they didn’t much care for him, particularly so after he was allowed to be booted up a whole entire grade in elementary school, moving from the second to the third in an unprecedented act by the notoriously ornery principal, played tackle football in the park or elsewise knocked each other silly in pursuit of their own type of fun. And, even though the girls, at that time, _had_ been more than just a little willing to include him in their own particular gender-exclusive activities, such as double-dutch competitions and hands on hair-braiding tutorials, back when Gibbs’s hair had still been long enough to allow for that specific participation, and the eventual and inevitable gossip circles that had developed once recess was no longer a part of their lives, there had eventually, and inevitably, come a point in time where the parents of his friends had started to become uncomfortable with his heavy presence in their daughter’s lives and bedrooms - a general consensus that had henceforth severely limited his access to his friends outside of school and the occasional movie or dance and had, once more, left him to largely find entertainment and solace in the writings of Flossy Cooper and other such similar authors.

But, alas, Gibbs had to concede that he was, indeed, staring. And, given that his somewhat intense gaze was directed right at the leather-bound book nestled neatly in the author’s wrinkled embrace, and currently hugged up against her chest, in a protective sort of hold, he had to further admit that he wouldn’t exactly be making the best of impressions were he to be suddenly caught staring in that general direction.

“Hello, loves.” Ms. Cooper hummed, her tone as warm and comforting as a cashmere sweater. “How are we all doing tonight?” 

A hushed flood of polite whispers arose all around the cozy room then, with the general consensus of them all being that everyone was, indeed, having a rather good time. And God help him, if Gibbs didn’t just _love_ the quiet serenity and mellowness of it all. For after spending what seemed like an endless lifetime in the disgustingly loud and obscene environs of military barracks and lodgings, accommodations he had always felt were beneath the dignity of living people, maybe even dead ones, he had learned to greatly appreciate the more well-mannered and refined types of people and environments. Not only because the presence of such almost always excluded the presence of farts and other such disgusting displays of manly ‘humor,’ but so too because he felt they kept him relatively safe from being addressed as a ‘cunt’ or ‘nancy-boy’ – not to mention ‘faggot.’

“Lovely.” Ms. Cooper beamed, seeming genuinely thankfully for the audience she had only met just moments ago. “Let’s began, shall we?”

If Gibbs had thought his happiness to be complete before, just by looking upon his favorite author’s face, he was quite happily mistaken, for the twenty-three pages that Ms. Cooper proceeded to read aloud to them all took him to an indescribable field of happiness and contentment. For only did he find her voice to be immensely pleasing, and as comforting and calming as the purring of a cat, so too did such an act come with the welcome knowledge that not Mademoiselle Anne was absolutely determined to marry her rescuer, come hell or high water or anything else in between. And while, granted, he would have almost preferred to hear the end result of Gavin’s forbidden tryst with his captain’s brother, as such a side story would surely contain far more intrigue and drama, Gibbs comforted himself with the knowledge that he would soon have the book in his own hands.

“Oh, but I had best not go on.” Ms. Cooper self-censured, abruptly cutting short her monologuing right at the point where an already distressed Madam Anne was being angrily accosted by the Captain’s elder sister. “Does anyone have any questions?”

While Gibbs had, in fact, accrued a small series of questions during the reading, and written them down in a small notebook he had been sure to bring along to the affair, himself having always been somewhat of a scholar at heart, he soon found, much to his great chagrin and irritation, that he was suddenly far too shy and nervous to put forth and of said queries to the author standing so nearby, both fearful of somehow making himself look like stupid and likewise greatly concerned that he might inadvertently offend Ms. Cooper with bluntness of some of his questions. Blythe, however, on the other hand, unfortunately seemed to have no such qualms with potentially being viewed in a less-than-favorable light. And, as such, took it upon herself to snatch the small libelous out of his hands, moving so quickly, and aggressively, that Gibbs really didn’t have any time to protest against such an invasion, much less put a stop to it.

“Yes, I have a few.” Blythe announced, unnecessarily waggling Gibbs’s private notebook to catch Ms. Cooper’s eyes.

Being the only one to have spoken up in response to the author’s request for questions, or perhaps simply the quickest, seeing as how a nearby man had taken to glaring jealously at her just as soon as she began to speak, Blythe sat up a bit straighter and read off his question with all the confidence and pride of a non-shy person asking their own - a respectable charade that might very well have fooled even the most discerning of people had Gibbs not been blushing as strongly as he currently was in response to such anxious discomfort. Ms. Cooper, however, unfortunately seemed to have witnessed the whole entire exchange take place and, as a result, was now looking directly at him, which, in turn, made him every bit just as uncomfortable as he had been when giving his valedictorian speech at his high school graduation.

“Yes, Love.” Ms. Cooper hummed, still looking at Gibbs. “Ask away.”

Taking but a brief moment to glance at the first of his questions, Blythe cleared her throat before putting forth, in Gibbs’s opinion, the most pressing of his queries.

“How do you feel about literary critics accusing your Captain Carter trilogy of being too conservative in nature, even despite the heavy presence of what many people today would consider to be scandalous and controversial relationships contained within?”

While Ms. Cooper did, initially, look quite offended at the insinuation that any of works could ever be considered too much of _anything_ , let alone conservative, Gibbs was soon to learn that her offense, and vitriol, was not directed at him but rather the reporters that had dared slandered her with such baseless accusations.

“I would respond to those accusations, meritless though they are, by asserting that the lives of lovers, no matter how controversial their love may be, are not meant to be subject to the consumption and fetishization of others – least of all those who will never experience the need to hide aspects of their own love life. That some critics see it fit to condemn my work for what they take as an appalling lack of meritless stereotypes, and an almost ‘offensive presence of normalcy between two homosexual lovers’, is a fairer condemnation on them than it is on my work.”

Clearly understanding that Gibbs wasn’t about to offer up any of his own commentary any time soon, at least not in front of so very many people, Blythe kept up the task of speaking for him and moved forward with another of his questions before anyone could even interject their own opinion into the matter, much less make an inquiry of their own.

“Well said.” Blythe lauded, doing a commendable job as his spokesperson. “But onto my next question: Judging from a strictly feminist point of view, could it be said that a certain amount of agency was removed from Anne after Captain Carter killed her captor - given that her choice to leave with him, at that point, was largely motivated out of a very real fear that she might be similarly punished if not compliant? And, furthermore, do you feel as if you are writing of an actual, romantic love, when she first accepts his hand, or merely a more practical type of acceptance, with only the hope for eventual affection?”

“Such excellent questions.” Ms. Cooper smiled. “But I do believe I’d like to hear your take on the matter before I give mine.”

For all the panic and anxiety Gibbs immediately experienced upon hearing that very simple suggestion, Ms. Cooper could have very well been pointing a loaded gun in his face whilst she made her request for information. And, truth be told, Gibbs would have almost preferred that scenario, as he knew, from many years in the military, just how to react in such a situation to secure the best outcome for himself and others - something he couldn’t exactly say about public speaking.

“As a man, I don’t really feel as if my opinions on feminism should take precedence over yours.” Gibbs tactfully evaded, hoping for an easy escape.

Despite looking somewhat disappointed in his refusal to make his own opinions known to the room at large, Ms. Cooper thankfully allowed his panicked evasion to go unchallenged and instead looked around the room for a more willing participant. An act of clemency Gibbs was more than just a little appreciative of, as such reprieved had been notoriously sparse whilst he was still in high school and subject to constant oral reports.

“Personally,” Alice tentatively began, looking just as nervous to be at the center of attention as Gibbs felt, “I feel as if Anne made the right decision in choosing to leave with the captain. I mean, there isn’t anything inherently anti-feminist about being practical when a situation calls for it. What else was Anne supposed to do? Subject herself to poverty?”

“She could have taken a job.” A nearby man asserted, young enough to still be in the earlier years of undergrad school.

“As what?” Blythe hissed, ever protective of Alice. “She can barely even see, let alone read.”

Clearly none too keen on having his precious few years of college education called into question in front a crowd, let alone the small group of friends currently seated nearby him, the nameless stranger glared sharply in Blythe’s direction before resentfully giving forth a fairly uninspired retort.

“She could have relied on charity.”

“Yes,” Blythe sardonically mocked, “Because we all know how charitable religious people can be.”

“Still,” The disgruntled man proceeded to argue, “It’s not really her choice to leave with the captain if she had nowhere else to go.”

Not wishing to see his evening with Flossy Cooper cut short by the eruption of an uncomfortably heated argument, and similarly not wishing for Blythe to be evicted from the premises, on account of all the kindnesses she’d been doing for him that evening, Gibbs stepped in at that moment and played the part of a reluctant peacekeeper.

“I think,” He reluctantly interjected, “That we’re going about this all wrong. We’re approaching this book from a strictly feminist position, when it’s written to be more of a condemnation of traditional morality. And, once we start analyzing it through that lens, mostly all of Anne’s decisions become defendable.”

All except her initial, and blatant, emotional manipulation towards the captain in the first few weeks following her rescue, of course. Although, again, Gibbs could hardly fault the terrified young girl for doing what she felt she had to in order to secure a return to dry land, much less a life away from lecherous criminals.

“Very well said,” Ms. Cooper hummed, nodding her appreciation, “You really are a clever little thing, aren’t you?”

Completely unfamiliar with the concept of being regarded as someone little, seeing as how he was a good and solid six feet tall, with a few added inches to spare, Gibbs just blinked stupidly at the world-renown author who had deigned to address him, all but certain that she couldn’t possibly have been speaking to _him_ but rather someone far smaller, such as Blythe. Only, as Flossy Cooper gradually approached the couch he was currently seated on, her dark eyes honed on him the whole entire time, Gibbs was forced to concede that maybe he was her intended audience after all.

“Tell me, love, what is your name?” Ms. Cooper inquired, affectionately laying a bejeweled hand on his shoulder.

Already mildly overwhelmed by feelings of mild hero worship, ever since Ms. Cooper had first deigned to address him, Gibbs found it rather necessary to clamp down hard on his tongue to keep his cool as he felt her slender fingers giving his shoulder a gentle sort of squeeze.

“Jethro.” He managed, without stuttering.

“Jethro, love, has anyone ever told you that you’re a very insightful type of person?” Ms. Cooper inquired, gazing down at him through a set of rather grandmotherly eyes.

Having always been a rather studious sort of child, even in kindergarten, where he had taught himself to read well before all the other children had, through sheer force of will alone, and the assistance of a rather patient uncle, who didn’t seem to mind listening to his nephew hobble through a Dick and Jane book for three weeks straight, when all the other uncles in his peer group were still working with their nieces and nephews on mastering their letters, something he had already accomplished the prior year, Gibbs had, indeed, been complimented on his intelligence many times throughout his life. But, he reflected, there was just something so fundamentally different about having his intellect appraised by a stranger, who had no underlying obligation to preserve his self-esteem, in comparison to being bombarded with praise from a beloved family member or teacher. The former was, in Gibbs’s opinion, just somehow much more validating and believable – if not because a stranger was far less prone to exaggeration, as in the case of his mother, who had once claimed he had mastered the multiplication table in first grade, when he still struggled with mastering the eights, than certainly because a stranger would not be prone to see any evidence of intelligence that was not already there in the first place.

“We must not forget where our talents lie.” Ms. Cooper gently reprimanded, moving her fingers beneath his chin to lift his face and force eye contact. “I’d like to leave you with a little reminder of that.”

And, thus said, Flossy Cooper relinquished his chin and pressed into his hands the red leather-bound notebook she had come into the coffee house with – gifting Gibbs the manuscript that nearly two million people had been pining ages for.

“I can’t take – “

“You can,” Ms. Cooper countered, stooping down to kiss his forehead, “And you will.”

Practically inebriated from the enormous amounts of excitement and bliss he had just experienced upon being bestowed such a very real compliment, Gibbs couldn’t even find it within his faculties to thank the older woman for her kindness, much less wish her a good evening as she turned and took her graceful leave of the shop. Although, judging by the way Flossy Cooper had been behaving in so grandmotherly a fashion towards him that whole entire evening, Gibbs highly doubted she would take any real offense from his appalling lack of manners.

“What the actual fuck just happened?” Blythe demanded, her harsh whisper breaking his reverent trance.

“I have no goddamn idea.” Gibbs whispered back, clutching the coveted manuscript in a veritable death grip. “ _Holy shit.”_

Because as vulgar and uncouth as such a declaration of surprise made his sound, there just wasn’t any other words for what he had just experienced. For Gibbs hadn’t had such a purely selfless kindness done to him since his father had taken him, as a rather small boy of ten, into the heart of Pittsburgh to see a somewhat underground cabaret show featuring all effeminate men in order to prove that people like him could do just fine in the world – no matter what all the other boys at school liked to claim. But, even then, even _after_ the show’s lead had taken him backstage and gifted him his trademark fedora as a keepsake, Gibbs had known the act was only ever motivated out of the pitiful compassion most adults tended to feel towards small children they could relate to. What Ms. Cooper had done for him, instead, was to somehow rekindle the more artistic portion of his personality that he had long since allowed to go dormant – and Gibbs just loved her all the more for that refreshing lack of pity.

“You’re…You’re going to let us read that book, right?” Alice delicately pressured, her soft brown eyes wide with an endearing sort of hopeful anticipation. “After your done with it?”

Thinking it would be the very height of rudeness, not to mention jackassery, for him to refuse such a very simple request, especially seeing as how he wouldn’t have even had the honor of seeing Ms. Cooper face-to-face had Alice not intervened and forced him down onto the sofa, Gibbs smiled softly and immediately sought to reassure the anxious woman sitting beside him.

“You can have it when I’m done.” Gibbs agreed. “Which will probably be tomorrow if I have anything to say about it.”

_“Tomorrow?”_ Alice repeated, looking highly incredulous.

“Sure.” Gibbs patiently asserted. “I’m not going to sleep until I’m finished.”

And, if what his suspicions involving the inevitable dual between the Captain and his first mate were proven correct, it was likely he wouldn’t be getting any sleep afterwards, either.

“That works out perfectly.” Alice beamed, exchanging a quick look with her wife. “You can just meet us for breakfast at _Hildegarde’s_ then.”

Having not been invited on a social outing by anyone other than Ducky since he had graduated high school, save for by his agents, whom he regarded more as children than genuine peers, Gibbs almost rejected the offer, out of his habitual desire to avoid all things new, before quickly taking note of his impending self-sabotage and capitulating at the last moment. Because even _if_ the idea of spending time with two women whom he barely knew caused him significant anxiety, to the point that his palms were now sweating profusely, Alice and Blythe seemed like safe, and kind, enough people to attempt carrying out his therapist’s repeated request that he try and make non-work related friends on.

“What time were you thinking?” Gibbs asked.

“How about eleven?” Alice suggested.

“For _breakfast?”_ Gibbs questioned, wondering if he had, perhaps, initially misheard the soft-spoken woman.

Because unless he was mistaken, or elsewise permanently programmed in his thinking from his time in the military, breakfast was a meal that was taken before eight.

“Alice sleeps in until ten now.” Blythe contributed, sensing his confusion.

“I’m retired now.” Alice defended. “I’ve _earned_ that.”

Nowhere near familiar enough with either woman to tease the friendlier half of said couple for her slothful sleeping decisions, even though he was personally affronted by the idea of anyone sleeping in past seven, Gibbs kept mum on the subject and instead opted to give forth his consent to the spontaneous plans being made.

“So, breakfast tomorrow at _Hildegarde’s_.” Gibbs stated. “At eleven?”

“Yes,” Alice confirmed, “But try to be a little early, please. I don’t want to miss out on a window seat.”

“I’ve never been anything but early in all my life.” Gibbs reassured, almost offended by the unintended insinuation that he was anything but.

“Oh, good.” Alice smiled. “I hate being kept waiting. It’s one of my biggest pet peeves.”

Well, Gibbs thought, that was yet another thing he and Alice had in common.

“Have you ever been to _Hildegarde’s_ , Jethro?” Alice queried, moving the conversation right along with expert poise.

“I haven’t.” He confirmed.

_Hildegarde’s_ was, after all, more of an elitist and posh type of environment, much more suited towards Ducky and Kate’s somewhat high-maintenance tastes than it was for Gibbs’s simpler preferences. Although, truth be told, Gibbs’s royalty-obsessed ass wouldn’t mind be waited on hand-and-foot at least once in his life. Even _if_ said service wasn’t carried out by courtiers and royal attendants.

“You’re going to just love it.” Alice insisted. “It’s so calm and peaceful.”

“And they also have an entirely separate vegetarian menu, with tons of options.” Blythe contributed.

Having long since grown tired of frequenting places that claimed to be welcoming to vegetarians, and only ever getting suspiciously soggy salads as a result, or maybe an undercooked eggplant, Gibbs was ridiculously relieved to hear that he was going to be served palatable food for once. 

“Where do you live, Jethro?” Blythe probed, stealing the very last of his cookies. “I was thinking we could just carpool, if you lived along the way.”

“I live in a really secluded area.” Gibbs offered, almost apologetic.

“You can just pick us up, then.” Alice decided. “That’ll give me more time to sleep in.”

“Sure.” Gibbs agreed, finding no real reason to refuse such a request. “Where do you two live?”

Looking, for a very fleeting second, almost too nervous to answer his very simple question, as if he had somehow just inquired about the exact sizing of her bra, or perhaps the last four digits of her social security number, Alice nibbled nervously at her bottom lip before responding.

“West Zionville.” She reluctantly admitted, almost speaking in a whisper.

And, even though Gibbs wanted to do nothing more than pretend as if he couldn’t understand the reasoning behind Alice’s anxiety regarding her home, even _he_ wasn’t stubborn enough to force his mind into submitting to such willful ignorance. For West Zionville, commonly referred to as Kykeville by those of a less a reputable constitution, was the absolute largest settlement of Jewish families in the city – or, at least, it was _now_ , nearly a full six decades after the original Zionville had burned down under suspicious circumstances and it’s remains sold off to the Gentiles who had always coveted the pretty area. That Alice felt somewhat concerned about giving away clues to her heritage, particularly with the fairly recent uptick in hate crime against those of the Jewish faith, was only natural, if not a fair bit sad and unfortunate.

“Do you live near the grove of cherry blossoms?” Gibbs asked, wishing to make it absolutely clear that he had nothing against those of the Jewish faith.

“We live on that massive hill overlooking them.” Alice supplied, starting to look far less nervous now that she realized Gibbs wasn’t about to harass her ethnicity anytime soon.

“How the hell did you two get lucky enough to get a house on Blossom Hill?” Gibbs queried.

Because as far as Gibbs was aware, from the various readings he had done on all the historical neighborhoods nestled within the city, via the aid of an obscure book Ducky had given him for his birthday, it now cost a pretty two million dollars just to purchase an outdated, and dilapidated, two-bedroom home on the _edge_ of said neighborhood.

“My granddaddy left me everything in his will.” Alice humbly supplied. “There’s a reason my parents won’t talk to me anymore.”

“I’m sure partnering up with a goyim didn’t help matters any, either.” Blythe muttered, looking even more resentful than Alice.

Had Gibbs been even marginally closer to either one of the women seated beside him, he might have, in an effort to lighten the suddenly somber mood, joked that the whole homosexuality factor was also likely a contributing factor to Alice’s shunning. But, as it was, his new acquaintance’s long-standing familial alienation just didn’t seem like a laughing matter – at least not at the moment, when she looked very nearly on the edge of frustrated tears. 

“I – “

“You’ll have to be very careful when pulling up into the driveway.” Alice cut him off. “It gets dangerously slippery this time of year.”

Recognizing a forceful change of subject when one presented itself, Gibbs accepted the easy out and answered as expected, relieved to no longer be a party to someone’s strong emotions.

“I’ll drive careful.” Gibbs promised.

“Good.” Alice smiled, almost fully recovered. “I’d hate for something awful to happen to you right when we just became friends.”

Thinking, to himself, of course, that Alice was being far too generous with her dispersal of terms like friendship, given that she hadn’t even known him anywhere near long enough to know of the more aggravating aspects of his personality, such as his uninviting stoicism or his unyielding stubbornness, and was thusly unable to make an informed decision about the extending of such companionship, Gibbs felt himself frowning but nonetheless refrained from questioning his newest of acquaintances about whether or not she was sure she knew what she was getting into. Because if there was just one thing, and one thing alone, that his therapist had been gunning for him to stop doing, it was self-sabotaging his relationships. 

“Are you sure it’s not the well-being of the book you’re more concerned about?” Gibbs teased instead.

_“Absolutely not!”_ Alice vehemently denied, looking almost affronted by the very suggestion.

“Absolutely _yes_.” Blyth bluntly countered, the corners of her lips moving fractionally upwards.

“Blythe!” Alice scolded, looking highly affronted on Gibbs’s behalf.

“Jethro knows I’m only joking.” Blythe defended, still wearing her little smirk. “And,” she added, turning back to face him, “It’s not as if a book can’t be recovered from the scene of an accident.”

And, even though Gibbs was fairly certain that Alice was growing uncomfortable with the type of teasing currently taking place, to the point where she was actually clutching at her chest like an affronted matron of some sort, he couldn’t resist the temptation to get one last zinger in.

“A book can’t be recovered if it combusts with the driver.” Gibbs advised.

“Oy Vey, you two are terrible, absolutely terrible.” Alice sighed, shaking her head with a fond sort of disapproval. “Just please be careful.”

“I will.” Gibbs promised again, throwing the poor woman a bone.

After all, Alice _was_ beginning to look legitimately distressed by all the terrible imagery they were putting into her mind.

“And don’t go ringing the doorbell either.” Blythe directed. “It annoys the shit out of me. Just knock.” 

“And if we don’t answer, just walk right on in.” Alice further stipulated. “Our house is huge, and we can’t hear anything happening downstairs if were still in our bedroom.”

“What house do you two live in?” Gibbs inquired.

Because unless he was mistaken, there were only two, or maybe three, houses in West Zionville large enough, by today’s standards, to make the hearing of guests that difficult.

“The Blout house.” Alice provided, speaking at a low volume.

“You two live in the fucking _Blout_ house?” Gibbs demanded, hardly believing his ears. 

“Yes, but it’s not that big of a deal.” Alice insisted, a slight blush creeping up into her cheeks. “The house really isn’t as big on the inside as it looks from the outside.”

“It’s bigger.” Blythe undermined. “It took me six fucking weeks to learn how to get around in that thing.”

Gibbs didn’t even need to inquire of Alice as to whether or not her partner’s exaggeration was truthful, for he knew perfectly well, from his readings on the subject, that the infamous Blout house had been subject to a whole myriad of renovations and extensions over its centuries long existence – each proceeding resident doing what they willed with the abode, with no real regard for a harmony of styles, until Abraham Blout, whom he could assume was Esther’s paternal grandfather, took over and put an end to such nonsensical architecting. Granted, not before he had turned the whole root cellar into a distillery, but still…the man had inarguably saved the entire estate from turning into an ugly display of classless wealth. And that he had only uprooted one rather outdated, and useless, room in the manor as his payment for doing so, spoke more to his character than against it.

“Is there really – “

“Yes,” Alice sighed, “The original distillery is still in the cellar.”

“No,” Gibbs frowned, shaking his head, “I was going to ask if you still had Esther Blout’s original paintings.”

Although, if he were being perfectly honest, he really wouldn’t mind seeing the distillery that had been responsible for serving half of the city’s police force during prohibition.

“Oh.” Alice replied, looking surprised at the turn in conversation. “ _Yes._ But we moved them all to the copula. Some of them were too…distasteful to be kept out in the open.”

“I can understand that.” Gibbs agreed. “Her _Night of the Blood Moon_ created a lot of controversy in 1910.” 

If not because said blood moon was believed to have been far too menacing and predatory for the more subdued tastes of the time, than most certainly because of the accusations that the painting was, as a whole, by virtue of having a Protestant church as its second focal point, inherently anti-Christian in nature. That such a work had only been painted by a particularly outspoken Jewish woman, for that time, certainly hadn’t helped to stem the tide of vitriol that followed its release.

“Yeah, that one was the fucking creepiest.” Blythe grimaced. “And the first to be banished. Shit gave me nightmares.”

“Her later works aren’t to everyone tastes.” Gibbs allowed. “But even with as creepy as those paintings are, you have to admit she had a special way of making her works come alive.”

“If you ask me, she was almost _too_ good at that.” Blythe sniffed. “There’s absolutely no reason to make something as innocent as the moon seem so…creepy.”

“But wouldn’t you say it takes a special artist to be able to do that.” Gibbs gently posited.

Not because he, himself, had any real vested interest in changing the general public’s outlook on the usefulness or difficulty of art, of course, but simply because he didn’t like to see somebody’s workmanship so harshly critiqued – particularly so by those who likely had no real prayer of replicating even the worst of said artist’s pieces.

“Maybe.” Blythe shrugged. “I just prefer happier pieces, that’s all. If I wanted to go and depress myself I could just watch _The Titanic_ or _Les Mis_.”

“But happier pieces aren’t always the best of conversation starters.” Gibbs asserted, wishing to make his new acquaintance see the value of even the creepiest of work.

“I don’t need _paintings_ to start a conversation, Jethro.” Blythe rebuttled. “I’m perfectly capable of making small talk on my own.”

“I think Jethro’s talking about the discussion of _paintings_ , though.” Alice knowledgably suggested to her partner before turning back to Gibbs. “Are you an artist?” 

Whilst Gibbs did, on rare occasion, find himself mindlessly doodling on a napkin or a blank piece of scratch paper every now and then again, with either a pen or a pencil, he found he felt as if would be a most egregious lie were he to profess to owning such a talent. For as much as he seemed to have exceled in his art classes during school, to the point where he was frequently winning local and state-wide competitions for his works, he had soon found himself without either the time, or even the inclination, since leaving Vietnam, to sketch out scenes or the faces of people like he had once done in his youth – let alone to actually bring life to said pieces with the watercolors he had once so favored. And, as much as experts liked to claim that a person never could forget how to ride a bike, barring the presence of some serious physical or mental calamity, Gibbs knew far better than to just assume that the same could be said of artistic talent. In fact, he highly doubted if he could even draw up any of the practice figures, such as roses and various animals, that he used to use as warm-ups any longer, let alone replicate any of the more advanced portraits that had gotten him accepted into art school in the first damn place. But, he rationalized, there was really no need for him to trouble two near-strangers with such trifling information.

“I work for the NCIS.” Gibbs reminded, pushing all thoughts of his former talents away.

“What about before that?” Alice pestered, seeming genuinely curious.

“Not exactly.” Gibbs evaded, not really caring to have the spotlight put on him.

“What do you mean?” Blythe gruffly demanded. “You either were or you weren’t.”

“Well,” Gibbs frowned, feeling as if his hand had now been forced, “I _was_ accepted into the Ecole Nationale Superieure de Beaux-Arts my Sophomore year of High School.”

“That fancy-ass art school in Paris?” Blythe demanded, looking incredulous.

“That one.” Gibbs dryly confirmed. “But I was barely fifteen and my dad wouldn’t even consider letting me go.”

And although Gibbs could still recall just how dramatically he had reacted to his father’s decision to call up the school, and summarily inform them, in no uncertain terms, that ‘there was just no way in hell that he was going to allow his only child to jet off to some foreign country all alone,’ he had long since matured well enough to realize that the teenage theatrics he had thrown in response to such an executive decision had been far beneath the dignity of his person.

“So, that’s it?” Blythe interrogated. “You never tried again?”

“I didn’t need to try again.” Gibbs frowned. “The dean promised me a spot just as soon I turned eighteen.”

“But…?” Alice tentatively pressed.

“The morning I went in to get my passport, I found out I had been drafted for Vietnam.”

That, Gibbs reflected, had been the absolute biggest turning point in his whole entire life. And there were still many nights, when he lay awake in bed, his mind racing with thoughts of all the dreadful things that had happened to him following such an event, that he wished to the God he didn’t believe in that he had been bold enough to dodge that immoral draft and scurry off to Paris under a false name. Because up until the point where he had been subjected to sheer hell and brutality that was boot camp, and the horrors of a travesty-filled war that had quickly followed, his self-esteem and emotional well-being had been largely unaffected by the light teasing he had received from his peers in response to his obvious queerness. His feelings had certainly been wounded, of course, but his ego and confidence, as a whole, had always seemed to recover with a little bit of time and reassurance from his father and friends. Such displays of stubborn resilience were not, however, welcome in the world of the military – where any, and all, displays of willfulness were immediately stamped down with a fiery and vengeful passion by one’s superior officers. Because if any such officer wished to break your spirit by calling you out for your obvious queerness in front of your fellow grunts, who already hated and reviled you for your slight feminine air, you had best respond like the wounded puppy they wished you to lest you find yourself on starvation rations and your mandated sleep hours severely cut into. And it was just hard as hell, after being subjected to repeated incidences of such, for one to remain accepting of what they were, let alone _who_ they were. After all, one could only tolerate so many hours of being screamed at about how worthless and disgusting they were, for being too soft and too queer and too wrong, before they took it to heart and started to realized it was, at the very least, at least a little bit true. And there only just so many blanket parties and office-sanctioned harassments one could tolerate before they became hardened and shut down from the inside on out, removing all sense of feelings, and self, as they did so.

“Why didn’t you reapply after the war was done?” Alice asked.

“I just didn’t want to paint anymore.” Gibbs frowned.

In fact, he hadn’t really wanted to do much of _anything_ in the weeks following his return to Stillwater, and had only really slept the days away up until his father had broken down into tears one morning and pleaded with him to get out of bed for a few hours. A rare display of raw emotion that had, in the end, inevitably been responsible for Gibbs returning to the scene of his spiritual death and signing on for another four years of misery – so confident was he that the military could fix his depression just as well as it had his queerness.

“Jethro,” Alice began, place a compassionate hand on his knee, “I – “

“It’s alright.” Blythe interrupted her partner. “You don’t need to talk about it.”

Having not intended to talk about his residual trauma in the first place, even _if_ pressed, Gibbs couldn’t even find it within himself to be appreciative or his acquaintance’s reprieve from interrogation. Although, if Blythe took any real offense from his lack of gratitude, she certainly didn’t display any signs of such. Which, seeing as how they were about to meet for breakfast the following day, was probably a good thing in the long run.

“What kind of vehicle do you drive anyways?” Blythe interrogated, brusquely changing the subject. “Because anything smaller than a Mazda isn’t going to make it up the hill.”

“I’ll take my truck.” Gibbs promised, relieved at the change in conversation. “But if you two expect to get my book tomorrow, I really should be going.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay for another cup of coffee?” Alice badgered.

“I really should be going.” Gibbs insisted, rising to his feet. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

And, before either one of them could think to capture his hands and pull him back down onto the sofa, Gibbs gave them both a quick wave and moved with purpose towards the exit.

“See you tomorrow.” Alice cried. 

“And don’t forget the book!” Blythe called out.


	3. Chapter 3

Almost wishing, for the first time in several decades, that he was actually physically capable of sleeping in past seven in the morning, Gibbs groaned loudly and rolled over onto his back to stare at his ceiling for the third time in as many hours, his bad knee throbbing from the suddenly pervasive chill in the air and his mind racing with rather unwelcome thoughts of all the ways in which he might potentially mess up his upcoming ‘breakfast’ outing with Blythe and Alice. Because even with all the work his therapist had put into trying to get him to stop thinking so damn poorly of himself, Gibbs couldn’t help but overly trouble himself with the rather juvenile concerns of whether or not his two new acquittances would still like him by the end of their shared meal. And while Gibbs typically would, when occasions arose that required his presence at a social function, simply call up Ducky and solicit some encouragement from the skinny man where regarded the upcoming trial he was about to experience, he found himself rather reluctant to do so on this particular occasion for two fairly solid reasons: the first being that it was far too early in the morning to be making any social calls, particularly so to the man tasked with babysitting the notoriously colicky Victoria over the weekend so that his pseudo son might get some quality sleep for the time in four months, and the second being that Gibbs didn’t much fancy the idea of his closest of friends fawning over him for doing something relatively commonplace for most people in the world – which was exactly Ducky’s wont to do whenever Gibbs happened to step outside his rather confined comfort zone. For as much as such accolades stemmed forth from a place of genuine well-wishing, Gibbs wasn’t a small child in need of constant validation for his choices. No matter how _good_ said validation did, admittedly, feel to receive on occasion.

_‘Might as well shower and kill a few minutes.’_ Gibbs finally conceded, unable to lie in bed doing absolutely nothing a minute longer.

It was only when Gibbs had finally gathered up all the courage required to actually leave the warmth of his cozy bed, that he realized just how swollen and irritated his knee had become overnight, for he found himself hobbling, rather than walking, down the hall towards his upstairs bathroom. But rather than bemoan the fact that it was clearly going to be one of his ‘flare-up’ days, as evidenced by the distinct redness of his knee, he forcefully ejected that negativity from his mind and made his way into his bathroom with only minimal cursing on his part. Fortunately, for the sake of Gibbs’s sanity, as well as for Tony’s general well-being, said man-child had actually remembered to clean out the shower after having used it the previous evening to clean up from barfing all over himself after his spontaneous night out on the town with Kate and Tim. Because even though Gibbs loved the young man dearly, to the point where he had quite literally adopted him several years back, said child _did_ have the rather annoying and pervasive habit of leaving behind locks of his curly hair wherever he went – like some sort of constantly shedding werewolf.

Unfortunately, however, upon completing his shower and taking his leave of the stall, in active pursuit of getting his teeth brushed, Gibbs was promptly met with the realization that a rather drunken Tony had, at some point during the night, whilst he had still had the house to himself, somehow depleted the entire bottle of economy-sized mouthwash that Gibbs had only just purchased three days ago. Although, judging by the fact that there seemed to be a suspicious amount of liquid pooled up on the floor by his sink, it seemed an accidentally spilling, rather than a dangerous ingestion, had been the cause – not that Gibbs was entirely willing to stoop down and give the suspicious puddle a sniff test, however. But, given that Gibbs was a fairly good and consistent brusher, and not at all prone of halitosis, he charitably decided to let the harmless misdeed go unpunished, seeing as how it had harmed him in no considerable fashion and likewise taking into consideration the fact that Tony had at least been responsible enough to clean out the shower before collapsing in an exhausted heap on the downstairs sofa. Granted not before he had spent a considerable amount of time crying to Gibbs about how much Kate hated him, but still, progress was progress.

Thankfully, the task of dressing came a fair deal easier. Not only because he was a notoriously unfussy dresser, at least now, as a full-grown adult, but so too because he had been given very clear guidelines, via an exceedingly helpful Alice, for how to dress for the occasion – nice, but not _too_ nice. Which, to Gibbs, meant pulling on yet another cashmere sweater, this one a slightly lighter shade of blue than the one he’d worn the previous evening, and donning his one pair of jeans that _hadn’t_ been savaged from his years of hard work. It was only after Gibbs had declared himself to be all set and ready to go, his one pair non-work-related shoes already donned and expertly laced up, that he realized it was only 7:45.

But, as much as that unpleasant reality did, in fact, annoy him, _prodigiously_ , up to the point where he actually allowed a select curse word or two to be mumbled beneath his breath, Gibbs soon comforted himself with the knowledge that the long wait ahead of him would only serve to allow him ample time to ice his knee with. And, all things considered, he really should look over his coveted book one last time before surrendering custody of it to Alice and Blythe. If not to solidify the entire narrative in his head, so that he might better analyze the characters motivations later on, then at the very least to dry out the pages of the select few chapters that had had the great misfortune of detailing Gavin’s untimely death via duel. Not because he was embarrassed, per se, of the intense emotions such chapters had elicited from him, of course, but rather because he didn’t wish for the pages of his new book to start sticking together.

And so it was that Gibbs passed his morning, ensconced quite comfortably in his favorite recliner with the coveted book in one and a steaming hot mug of coffee in the other, his lap piled high with the softest of blankets and the knee concealed beneath wrapped up firmly with a soothing ice pack, his mood a pleasant one as he willingly reread the narrative that had caused him great grief, as well as immense joy, only hours before. And, before he even knew it, his knee no longer ached quite so fiercely and the clock in the corner read 10:25, the perfect time for him to be heading out to pick up Alice and Blythe.

But, before Gibbs could even think to take off and do just that, there was one last thing that needed attended to. That important task being, of course, the checking in on of his currently passed out child, if not to determine whether or not he had pissed the bed again and was in need of cleaning up, than most certainly to ascertain whether or not he was still turned on his side, as Gibbs had left him the previous evening, so that he might not inadvertently choke to death in the event that any post hangover vomiting should occur. Because even though it seemed as if said man had already expelled every last bit of food in his system the previous evening, all over his clothing and the interior of Tim’s car, Gibbs just wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving his house without taking ever last precaution available to him to ensure that his child’s well-being was secured.

Thankfully, he found the young man still fast asleep in the bedroom Gibbs had deposited him in, soft snores stemming forth from his mouth and a thin line of drool dripping down his chin onto the Marine shirt he had stolen from Gibbs to sleep in. And even though Gibbs was, in fact, in somewhat of a hurry, given that he didn’t wish to be late for his first official outing with two new acquittances, he couldn’t help but take a moment, just a brief one, to really appreciate just how young and innocent Tony looked whilst curled up in his blankets like a napping kitten. And with his unlined face pressed up so closely against the small mound of pillows he had created for himself, and only one eye peeking out to display a set of unjustly long lashes atop his smooth cheeks, Gibbs couldn’t help but think that he almost looked as young as Tim currently did, albeit far less baby-faced and pale. And how anybody, let alone the man’s biological father, could ever throw something so pure and loving away, as if it were nothing more than garbage, was well beyond the limitations of his vast comprehension. Because, to him, Tony was absolute perfection and everything a person could ever want in a child. That they happened to share no biological blood, or similar DNA, was no matter to him, for their bond ran all the more deeper because it was experience that had bonding them, and not an outdated social convention that dictated that all children must love their birthers. Gibbs had _earned_ that parental affection, through dedication and hard work and, because of it, had solidified Tony’s trust and affection forever, in a manner Senior had never been able to replicate. Although, if he were being perfectly truthful, said walking piece of shit had never even really tried.

But, as much as Gibbs could have spent the remainder of the day staring at his child, and soaking in all those features that he absolutely adored about him, such as the crooked dimples and soft forehead curls, he eventually conceded, rather reluctantly, that he did, in fact, have to take off soon if he wished to remain on time. But, first, he would leave behind a note for his child.

_‘Tony,’_ He penned, scribbling down his note on the surface of a tissue, _‘I’m heading out for a while. There’s leftover lasagna and garlic bread in the fridge and some Ginger Ale, too, if you’re still feeling queasy. Call me if you need anything.’_




And while Gibbs didn’t find it necessary to outright specify just where he was going, forever as taciturn in his writing of notes as he was when speaking, he had no genuine concerns that Tony would worry about his whereabouts upon reading the short missive, as said man would no doubt simply assume that he had taken off on a coffee run or, perhaps, a short visit to Ducky’s for lunch. And if, on the slightest off-chance, Tony awoke before he returned home, and became somewhat surly on account of nobody being there to help him nurse his hangover, Gibbs was perfectly positive that all would be forgiven just so long as he brought back a Blizzard, or some other various treat, for the somewhat spoiled young man.

“See you in a bit, Kiddo.” Gibbs announced, giving his child’s sleep-tousled curls one last tousle before quitting the room.

The most important of his tasks thus completed, Gibbs headed quietly back downstairs, careful not to awaken the sleeping Tony as he navigated the notoriously creaky stairs with an expert skill that could only be gained with time and familiarity. He then turned out all the lights he had used to be better see that morning, before the sun had arisen to give off any significant lighting of its own, and moved to collect his thickest spring jacket from the coat closet in his kitchen, rather mindful of the sharp chill currently violating the air outdoors. And, from there, once his jacket was zipped all the way up, of course, Gibbs proceeded into his garage via the kitchen entrance, determined to avoid the cold for as long as he could, and climbed into his freshly washed, and vacuumed, truck with no small amount of pride. Because even though the interior of the antique truck his uncle had passed down to him was more than just a little worn out from advanced age, the fabric upholstery having long since faded from many years of street side parking, and the dashboard _still_ irreparably cracked from the time Thomas Kennedy had smashed his hard-ass head into it, after not buckling up as directed before Gibbs made a disastrous attempt to conquer a homemade ramp with a truck that weighed far too much to achieve any significant amount of air, Gibbs was, at the end of the day, still quite proud of his stalwart vehicle, and felt keenly that it couldn’t possibly ever be improved upon, even _had_ he been inclined to try. So, if Blythe and Alice wound up not caring for their shuttle for the day, so be it, that would be _their_ issue, not his. Although, if he were being perfectly honest, Gibbs highly doubted that either woman would take much umbrage with the condition of said truck, as they had both seemed like rather nice people.

Much to his great surprise, as well as his vast relief, traffic proved to be far less severe that Saturday morning than anyone would have had reason to expect – with only a select few motorists, and in once odd case a bicyclist, giving him any considerable grief and trouble. And, all things considered, the slight anger that those minor irritations provoked were easily taken care of quickly enough with the mumbling of a few select curse words and the repetition of a particularly vulgar hand gesture his father would have slapped him for had he witnessed it.

Nevertheless, even _despite_ the presence of those select few hiccups, Gibbs had found himself pulling up into the heavily gated community of West Zionville soon enough, a slight, yet brief, altercation with their stern and unsmiling security guard, who demanded not only the viewing of his license, but his NCIS credentials as well, before granted him entrance, being his only significant complaint where regarded the community as a whole. Because even though that whole entire exchange had annoyed him, rather prodigiously, to the point where he had almost threatened to jump into the guard booth and shove his credentials down the ornery guard’s throat, the scenery that had awaited him upon actually pulling into the first of the neighborhoods was more than enough to make up for it. For not only were the impeccably paved streets lined with a series of gorgeous trees and budding flower bushes, so too were the majority of the houses he had driven past traditionally gorgeous in the way that only the passing of hundreds of years could allow for.

But, undeniably best of all, was his leisurely cruise down the infamous street lined with cherry blossoms. As not only were said trees currently in the process of trying to bloom, even despite the heavy setback of a sudden cold snap, so too had they been trimmed and maintained to near-perfection by someone with a keen eye for detail. In fact, so tempting was the flowery visage surrounding him, that Gibbs actually cracked open the window of his truck to allow for the rich scent of the blooms to enter his vehicle and delight him.

It was only after he had arrived at the steep incline splitting the matching rows of cherry blossoms right down the middle, that Gibbs realized, belatedly, that Blythe hadn’t been joking at all when she had insinuated said ‘road’ became a veritable death trap in the spring, as said ‘road’ was so choked up with slippery, black, mud that Gibbs wouldn’t have even known it was a proper ‘street’ had it not been for the pretty white fencing lined up along its sides. But, with nothing else but to just go for it, Gibbs simply inched his truck forward until his front tires were touching the point of ascent and floored it, not daring to let up on the gas pedal until he had reached the summit and was reasonably assured his truck wouldn’t start falling backwards without active effort to keep it from doing so. And while, granted, he was a bit disappointed with the way his necessary actions had resulted in his freshly washed, and waxed, truck becoming as filthy as those that farmers used to get from field to field, he felt as if Blythe and Alice would hardly fault him for it, especially considering the fact the Prius and Volkswagen Beetle parked out front were considerably muddy as well.

But, even if the state of all the assembled vehicles proved less than palatable, the status of the Blout house more than made up for it, as the 230 year old home was even more beautiful up front in person than it was in the book Ducky had gifted him – even _with_ the clear presence of all the architectural nonsense that had been inflicted upon it throughout the ages. For not only had the exterior of such a renowned home been kept the same customary shade of soft verdigris green throughout its lengthy existence, lending it a certain approachability despite its intimidating size, so too had the surrounding property been tended to with careful administrations, as clearly evidenced by the still pristine, and historical outbuildings, and the aesthetically harmonious shrubs and plants lining the property. Hell, even the stone staircase leading up to the front door was well-maintained, even though Gibbs was fairly certain it was still the original one that had been put in all those years ago – that was, if the telltale crack on the top step hadn’t simply been replicated to imitate the physical consequences of the infamous racist Charles Keaton breaking his head open on it after Esther Blout had thwacked him soundly with a broom.

But, rather than spend the next several hours taking in all those features he had read about, and thus run the risk of earning the ire of his new acquaintances, who were no doubt by that time hungry and in want of a meal, Gibbs made good use of the silver knockers and gave the thick wooden doors a solid three knocks. It was only when he was met with a rather resound, and lengthy, silence in return did he recall Alice’s earlier directive to simply walk in should his knock not be responded to in a timely manner. And, feeling no major qualms about doing just that, seeing as how he, himself, held the same policy where regarded his own home, Gibbs gave the door one last courtesy knock before pulling the leftmost portion open and entering the home. As expected, from all his reading up on of the infamous Blout house, Gibbs found himself in a breathtaking foyer immediately upon entering. And, if he took a gratuitous amount of time to appreciate the moldings and trimmings gracing such a fine room, well, so be it – no one could have possibly been any the wiser on that subject. Especially not seeing as how he had limited his shameless gawking to only two, or maybe three, minutes before forcing himself to ascend the rather grandiose stairwell all the way to the third, and last, landing.

It was only by following the gentle sounds of the classical music lightly flowing down the expansive landing, that Gibbs located the bedroom Alice and Blythe had claimed for their own, as there really were quite a number of doors lining the walls.

“Alice?” He called out softly, rapping gently on the door. “Blythe?”

“Jethro, is that you?” The former called out, her soft voice rather difficult to hear over the music.

But, rather than simply await an answer to her rather simple question, the taller, and _friendlier_ , of the two women he had just so recently befriended abruptly pulled open the door guarding the entrance to the bedroom she shared with her partner and yanked him, via the sleeve of his sweater, inside.

“We really need to work on your awkward hovering.” Alice tutted, pulling him further into the bedroom. “There’s really no need to be so shy, not around _us_ anyways.”

Having been nonverbally directed, via a gentle sort of push, into taking a seat in a rather delicate-looking rocking chair situated next to the massive vanity Blythe was currently seated before, Gibbs found himself lacking the ability to answer such accusations of shyness by virtue of trying to find a more comfortable position without making so much movement that his seat collapsed from the effort.

“I’m glad you made it up the hill alright.” Alice pressed onward, giving him to additional opportunity in which to refute the existence of his supposed shyness.

“If only the same could be said about the mailman.” Blythe grumbled, finally turning herself around to properly greet her guest. “I’ve been waiting ages for my Sephora packages.”

Not much knowing what to say in response to that, and not at all keen to defend the postal carriers who had just last year lost one of his birthday presents for Tony, Gibbs settled for flattery, as Ducky had once told him that a man, no matter how unsure of himself, could never go wrong in (modestly) praising a woman.

“At least you haven’t suffered any significant harm without them.” Gibbs opined.

And really, he thought to himself, she didn’t. For Blythe was one of those very few women, let alone people, who could face the world with a bare face and still claim the title of beautiful – even if, admittedly, her habitually unsmiling face leant her a certain severity that some, mostly entitled men, might find offensive in a woman.

“Careful, Jethro.” Alice teased, hugging a blushing Blythe’s head to her chest. “This one is _mine_ , and I don’t intend to share.”

“I don’t intend to steal.” Gibbs reassured with a smile. “No matter how tempting the object.”

And though his words were, indeed, a bit flirtatious in nature, he was pleased to see that neither woman had taken them as an indication he fancied the blonder of the two. Not only because he didn’t wish to create any undue awkwardness amongst them, so early into their fledgling relationship, but so too because it simply wasn’t true. For Gibbs did not now, nor had he really ever, found women attractive in the ways he supposed a natural man ought to – even _after_ his homosexuality had been cured in bootcamp. Sure, he could appreciate the general aesthetics of a woman, especially those singularly pretty ones, like Blythe, and even appreciate all those factors that went behind men selecting a certain woman for their affections, but it was precisely there that his admirations ceased. He could no more pine after a woman, whether sexually, or not, than he could after a particularly charming painting or sculpture. In fact, one of the very few times in which he had felt compelled to show any significant affection to a girl who wasn’t his mother, he had been a small boy of eight, compelled into kissing Martha Brown beneath the bleachers at recess to prove that he did, in fact, like girls to all the older boys who had taken to calling him a queer. And, even then, he hadn’t even remotely felt anything akin to attraction – a mild interest in her bubblegum-flavored lipstick being the only thing he could honestly lay claim to. Well, _that_ , and a rather vested interest in making certain his shoes didn’t get scuffed by her notoriously clumsy feet.

“What about you, Jethro?” Alice queried, breaking up his reverie. “Do you have a special someone at home?”

Although keenly aware of the purposeful way in which Alice deigned to forgo the using the words _girlfriend_ or _wife_ , which would have only been natural when questioning a straight man about his romantic life, Gibbs let the poor attempt at needling him into giving voice to an orientation that didn’t exist go uncensored. If not to avoid a quarrel only minutes into his arrival, then at the very least to avoid making a cur of himself. For he felt it would be quite unreasonable of him, as well as unjust, to hold against Alice the assumptions that so many other people had made about him before. And, practically thinking, he did not feel as if Alice made her insinuations with the same vitriol and mocking as others so certainly had.

“No.” Gibbs confessed, feeling a bit embarrassed at the confession. “The only special person in my life right now if my kid.”

And, to be quite frank, the presence of Tony in his life was more than enough to keep him both busy and happy. That Gibbs had no real need, nor want, in his life that his child didn’t already satisfy, was just fine by him. If he just so happened, on occasion, to think how nice it would be to have someone to cuddle up next to in bed, well, that was what pillows were for. He need not go and fatigue himself with trying to secure a girlfriend when such easy remedies were so readily available.

“You have a kid?” Alice pestered, looking excited.

“Just the one.” Gibbs confirmed. “Tony.”

Although, all things considered, Gibbs _was_ plotting to make for himself another son out of Tim. Not only out of an insatiable desire to satiate that unyieldingly paternal portion of his being, that outright refused to be settled in the presence of those cursed with shitty parents, but so too because he felt, quite strongly, as if Tim was in need, and want, of such a relationship himself – even _if_ he wasn’t expecting for a such a role to be filled by Gibbs. But, rather than dwell on all those things that first needed to be done before such a lofty goal could be achieved, Gibbs furthered the conversation along by removing from his wallet a photo of Tony and pressing it into Alice’s hands.

“Oh my God,” Blythe gently exclaimed, “That fucker is adorable.”

“Believe me,” Gibbs smirked, “He knows.”

“Just look at those dimples!” Alice gushed. “And those curls!”

“He sure is a cutie.” Blythe allowed, passing the photo back to Gibbs. “Too bad he couldn’t have taken after you a little bit more.” 

Had he not already learned how to decipher the genuineness of Blythe’s teasing by glancing at her lips to determine if whether or not the corners of such were turned up, Gibbs might very well have been deeply insulted about the blonde woman’s acerbic remark.

_“Blythe!”_ Alice scolded, swatting her girlfriend on the arm. “What is wrong with you?! Why would you say something like – “

“He has more of my personality.” Gibbs interrupted, wishing to avoid a squabble breaking out.

But, if Blythe felt any appreciation, whatsoever, in having been granted a reprieve from her scolding, she showed no signs of such as she continued the ribbing of her guest.

“That must be why you don’t have any grandchildren yet.”

“Blythe!” Alice squawked, smacking her arm again. “You can’t possibly know that!”

“If he did have grandchildren, he would have shown us their pictures.” Blythe countered, an expert debater.

“You – “

“I don’t have grandchildren.” Gibbs confirmed, still playing the part of peacekeeper. “But I _do_ have the keys. So, let’s try being a little nicer here, hm?”

Clearly a great fan of being difficult just for the sake of being difficult, Blythe quirked her lips once more and turned her focus back to him.

“Alice and I could just take my Bug.”

“Of course the Bug is yours.” Gibbs returned.

Because, all things considered, Gibbs highly doubted that Alice could even comfortably fit her long-ass legs into such a cramped vehicle, let alone pilot it without first having to contort her body into an uncomfortable position.

“What the hell does that mean?” Blythe growled, expertly sticking a set of pearl studs into her ears without the benefit of a mirror.

“It just seems like an appropriate car for a pixie to drive. That’s all.” Gibbs shrugged.

It was only after he took note of the fact that Blythe’s lips were no longer upturned at the corners, in their telltale sign of amusement, that Gibbs realized he had inadvertently struck a nerve with the woman whose friendship he had been trying to secure.

“Tell you what, Jethro.” Blythe bargained, still looking sour. “Because I like you, I’m going to let that little ‘pixie’ remark slide. But, if you _ever_ call me Tinkerbell, I _will_ geld you and feed you your own scrotum.”

Although some might have considered Blythe’s approach for requesting not to be referred to as Tinkerbell as overkill, particularly the whole ‘gelding’ portion of it, Gibbs felt as if it would be the very height of hypocrisy to take any real offense from the threat, as he, himself, felt rather strongly about referred to as a ‘queer’ or ‘faggot.’

“Leave my lack of grandchildren alone and we have a deal.” Gibbs agreed.

“Fair enough.” Blythe conceded, turning back to the mirror to tend to her hair. “You look rather snazzy in that sweater, by that way. Blue is a good color for you.”

While Gibbs had been told, several times, by an overly-friendly Abby the exact same thing, he was surprised to find that there was just something patently different about having his positive facial features appraised by somebody who had no real motivations, outside of genuine friendliness, for doing so as opposed to hearing the exact same thing from a dependent subordinate who was likely only buttering him to manipulate something from him. To put it simply, the former left him feeling good about himself while the latter left him feeling somehow sleezy.

“Thank you.” Gibbs answered, legitimately appreciative. “I like your perfume.”

“I sure hope so.” Blythe replied, grabbing up the bottle of said scent. “I paid 300 fucking dollars for this tiny ass bottle.”

“Oof.” Gibbs grimaced, using a series of quick math to determine the price, per ounce, for such a luxury. “At least it smells like it was worth every penny.”

“Oh, it was.” Blythe insisted. “Here, have a squirt.”

And, before Gibbs could even so much as politely refuse the offer, much less move out of the direct line of fire, Blythe had spritzed him with a hearty dose of the floral scent, leaving him smelling like the homosexual he most certainly _wasn’t_. But, rather than freak out and curse the skinny woman for her thoughtlessness, and thus run the risk of making himself look like a major asshole, Gibbs took a deep breath and reminded himself that the act had been done out of a spirit of kindness - the consequences of which could more than easily be disguised as having to do with spending time in the close company of two perfume-wearing woman.

“Well, now that the both of you smell like French aristocrats, let’s get going.” Alice pressured, quickly slipping her feet into a pair of lovely spring boots. “I want my window seat.”

“Alice,” Blythe frowned, looking genuinely taken aback, “You told me that you liked my perfume!”

“I do!” Alice insisted, perfectly earnest. “That was meant to be a compliment!”

“French aristocrats smelled like _shit_ , Alice, _shit_ covered up with perfume and nosegays.”

While his favorite aristocrats of the past were, indeed, of the French nationality, even Gibbs couldn’t deny the unsavory truth that they, as a whole, had very likely smelled only slightly less awful than the working classes of their time.

“You know that I’m not as into the aristocracy as you are.” Alice reminded. “And even if I were, I’d clearly prefer the British version.”

Having _always_ harbored some weird sort of attraction towards the ill-fated Anne Boleyn, up to the point where he had even named his absolute favorite China Doll after her, Gibbs almost felt personally insulted at Alice’s calm dismissal of the French aristocracy. For even though Anne Boleyn had, admittedly, only been _raised_ in France, rather than birthed, he strongly felt as if the strong personality she had returned home with served as concrete proof of the superiority of the French court.

“But the French aristocracy had more class.” He calmly opined.

“That didn’t save their heads though, did it?” Alice sallied.

“Well, at least the French didn’t lose their newest colony in only twelve years.” Blythe countered. “Or colonize half the goddamn world.”

“Again,” Alice frowned, “Heads. Chopped.”

“If I recall correctly, Henry the Eighth had a penchant for beheading, too.” Gibbs rebounded. “And, besides, the French aristocracy had the better food – hands down.”

“And fashion.” Blythe added.

“Operas, too.” Gibbs furthered. “And literature.”

Having finally reached the point of no longer wishing to listen to her opinions on the subject matter at hand being so summarily dismissed, Alice frowned deeply at them both before glancing, quite pointedly, at the watch on her wrist.

“We’re going to be late.”


	4. Chapter 4

While Gibbs had most certainly expected a certain amount of class and elegance from _Hildegarde’s_ , considering its stellar reputation throughout the city as one of the finest four-star restaurants around, he nonetheless found himself quickly overwhelmed by the sheer size, and sophistication, of said building. For only one was said restaurant shaped to resemble a charming little castle tower, perhaps of the German variety, what with its genuine stone façade and rounded windows, but so too was it surrounded by a series of rather lovely, if only just budding, flower bushes.

“This place is absolutely gorgeous.” Gibbs appraised, heartily admiring the visage of a nearby wood. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”

“You really do need to explore the world around you more, Jethro.” Alice advised, presumptively linking their arms together with a flattering familiarity. “There’s so much to be seen.”

“Fortunately for you,” Blythe smiled, claiming his remaining arm for her own, “You now have the benefit of two very willing tour guides to assist you.” 

So unfathomably flattered, and touched, was Gibbs in response to such a genuine and uncalculated gesture of friendship, having only ever received such gestures from Ducky, Gibbs found himself responding with humor rather than an expression of appreciation, more fearful of sounding ridiculously sappy than he was of being thought irreverently playful.

“And here I was,” Gibbs teased, “Thinking that you didn’t like me.”

“Trust me, Jethro, you wouldn’t have been invited to breakfast if I didn’t like you – book or not.” Blythe bluntly stated. “I’m far too old to be keeping the company of people I don’t like.”

“That’s a rather solid philosophy to live by.” Gibbs observed.

“There are many things to be learned from me.” Blythe smiled.

“Such as unwavering humility.” Gibbs dryly intoned.

“Precisely.” Blythe agreed, still wearing her trademark smirk.

Unfortunately, however, there was but little time with which to continue their banter, as having been lucky enough to park rather near to the entrance, they arrived at the doors of the restaurant in only seconds.

“Ladies,” A well-dressed doorman greeted, pulling open the door for them, “Sir. Good morning.”

As could only be expected of such a fancy establishment, the interior of the restaurant was even prettier than the outside, with a series of stone fireplaces lining the wall to provide heat and a collection of large windows to let in all the natural light a person could hope for.

“Good morning, Ms. Blout, Ms. Greene.” Their host greeted, hurrying over to his podium just as soon as he had espied Alice. “I see we have a newcomer today.”

“Frederick, this is Jethro.” Alice introduced, speaking with an air of authority he hadn’t thought possible for someone so friendly to possess. “He’ll be dining with us on the third floor today, at our usual table.”

Suddenly unsure as to just why Alice had been so patently concerned about not being able to claim a window seat for their meal, seeing as how their deferential host was eyeing her with an all-encompassing reverence that would have been far more appropriate for a deity, and would have almost _surely_ booted Jesus Christ himself from the restaurant if it meant keeping Alice happy, Gibbs gave the woman in question a look of puzzlement – but found himself promptly ignored as their clearly nervous host nearly tripped over himself in his great haste to get them situated at the aforementioned, and coveted, table.

“Of course, Ma’am.” Their host stammered, struggling to right himself. “Right this way.”

Being, himself, an unfortunate sufferer of severe anxiety, and empathetic towards their clearly anxious host as a result, Gibbs almost suggested to the nerve-riddled employee that they could find their table perfectly fine without his assistance. Only, once he stopped to actually consider the consequences of such a plan, he hastily reconsidered, as Gibbs didn’t wish for the poor young man to get in any sort of trouble for neglecting his duties as host – an outcome that would very likely trouble him far more, anxiety-wise, then leading a small group to their table.

“Here we are, ladies.” Frederick professionally intoned, gesturing at the well-situated table in question. “Sir.”

Seeing as how Frederick had immediately moved to assist Alice with the pushing in of her chair, Gibbs moved to do the same for Blythe and received a rather appreciative smile from their host, and Blythe, in return.

“Thank you, Frederick.” Alice approved, her sentiments directly echoed by both Gibbs and Blythe alike.

“It’s always my pleasure to serve you, Ma’am.” Frederick answered, nervously wringing his hands. “Shall I send your waiter over straightaway?”

Unfortunately familiar with the way in which restaurant waitstaff tended to defer to the oldest male at a table, regardless of the status of any of the women who were likewise seated, Gibbs opened his mouth to answer only to realize, belatedly, that Frederick was paying full mind to Alice and awaiting only _her_ decision on the matter.

“Please do so.” Alice directed. “Have the waiter bring our usual wine, as well.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Frederick nodded. “Of course, Ma’am.”

And, with that, the nervous Frederick was off, once more nearly tripping over himself as he hurried off to do as bid.

“I can see why you wanted a table near the window.” Gibbs commented, admiring the enhanced view of the little nearby wood. “The view is incredible.”

“It’s even lovelier when the fawns come out.” Blythe agreed.

“Are there a lot that come out this way?” Gibbs asked.

“Up until deer hunting season, yes.” Blythe confirmed, her lips screwing up into a little grimace.

Already knowing more than he cared to on the subject of deer hunting, having had the dubious pleasure to grow up in a small community that closed its schools explicitly for the opener of said season, Gibbs need not ask any clarifying questions as to just what unsavory event occurred each autumn.

“I imagine the rabbits aren’t much safer.” Gibbs frowned.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Blythe answered truthfully. “But I sure hope so. I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to shoot a bunny in the face.”

His parents having taught him early on to be tolerant of the beliefs of others, so long as they weren’t outright hateful or discriminatory in nature, Gibbs forced himself to refrain from asking Blythe why the same question didn’t hold true for cows, or pigs, or any other hapless animal with the exact same consciousness as a bunny. Fortunately, for the sake of his mood, Gibbs didn’t have very long to trouble himself with the contemplation of such a morbid question before their waiter arrived at the table and announced himself, his one had occupied with a trio of wine glasses and the other graced with a bottle of red.

“Good morning, ladies, sir.” Their waiter greeted “May I pour your wine for you?”

Before Gibbs could so much as politely refuse the offer of alcohol, much less request the substitution of water, Alice was once more answering for them all and directing their waiter to make good on his request.

“Don’t worry, Jethro.” Alice smiled, seeming to have sensed his mild distress. “It’s a light wine. Nothing too heavy.”

Although Gibbs had, in fact, promised himself that he would keep away from alcohol for at least a calendar year, after having realized, one tumultuous therapy session, that he used his dependence on bourbon and scotch as a crutch to avoid dealing with his feelings, he found himself rather reluctant to explain such to the two women he had only just met. Not only because he felt it would be the very height of jackassery to put his personal burdens unto his two new acquaintances, especially so soon into their fledgling relationship, but so too because he didn’t wish to run the risk of looking like one of those unhinged individuals who were incapable of having a sip of alcohol without immediately self-destructing.

“Perfect.” Gibbs answered, playing along with Alice’s incorrect inference that it had only been the _potency_ of the wine that had concerned him.

But, even though that particular little deceit left a sour taste in his mouth, Gibbs soon reassured himself with the undeniable fact that one glass of wine wasn’t going to send him over the edge, especially not after he had spent half a lifetime building up a fierce tolerance to 90 proof bourbon and scotch. And, all things considered, eight months _was_ fairly close to a calendar year.

“Shall I bring anything else to your table?” Thomas prompted, once his pouring of the wine had been completed. “Perhaps some bread?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Alice unilaterally decided. “Is Joseph in this morning?”

“Mr. Garvey is in his office, Ma’am.” Thomas confirmed.

“Have him come to our table, would you? I need to speak with him about the food selection for my Purim banquet.”

“Of course, Ma’am.” Thomas agreed. “I’ll direct Mr. Garvey to your table straightaway.”

“Please do so.” Alice directed, dismissing their waiter with a small smile.

Waiting patiently until their waiter had completely descended the stairwell to bring up what was on his mind, out of a genuine consideration for the privacy of his dining companion, Gibbs sipped idly at his wine, finding the taste to be a surprisingly pleasant one, and spoke only once he was absolutely certain that their conversation would not be overheard by anyone other than themselves.

“Do you hold some sort of stock in this restaurant?” He gingerly pressed.

Because as rude as such a question admittedly was, Gibbs found himself rather curious about all the preferential treatment they were currently getting just from Alice’s presence alone.

“No, why do you ask?” Alice queried, looking genuinely nonplussed.

Somewhat surprised that his seemingly intelligent acquaintance seemed so clueless as to the motives behind his query, seeing as how she had just directed the restaurant staff with all the authority of a four-star general, Gibbs frowned in confusion and looked to Blythe for clarification.

“Even though she likes to play dumb about it,” Blythe began, giving her girlfriend a rather pointed look, “Alice gets us the VIP treatment here by shelling out a shitload of money for them to cater her Purim and Hanukah parties every year.”

“I’m _sure_ I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Alice pouted, nowhere near convincingly enough to be believed. “We’re treated well because we’re valued customers.”

“That sounds like something a rich person would say.” Blythe harangued, kissing her partner on the cheek. “But since you’re paying for our breakfast, and I love you, I’ll let it slide.”

Not wanting to make himself a spectator to the affections of his potential friends, seeing as how he, himself, would hate for his own to receive the same treatment, Gibbs cast his eyes down as Alice returned the kiss and grabbed up his menu by way of creating a genuine excuse for such avoidance. 

“The vegetarian selections are on the second page.” Blythe advised, having not even bothered to open her own menu.

“Do you already know what you’re getting?” Gibbs asked, glancing at the abandoned menu with interest.

“Blythe _always_ gets the brioche French toast.” Alice answered, peeking out at Gibbs from behind her own menu. “ _Always_.”

“What can I say?” Blythe smiled, starting pointedly at Alice. “When I like something, I like something. What’s the sense in messing with perfection?” 

“Oh, _behave_.” Alice heatlessly censured, turning as pink as a flamingo.

Not quite knowing how to respond to two people behaving so affectionately in front of him, Gibbs soon found himself blushing as well and hiding the evidence of such behind the pages of his menu – patiently reading through the long list of breakfast foods available to vegetarians as waited for the shameless flirting going on in front of him to stop. Which, unfortunately, didn’t really happen until their waiter had returned to the table and questioned whether or not they were all ready to order.

“I’ll have the strawberry crepes.” Alice dictated. “But with _none_ of the syrup. And absolutely make certain that the meatless griddle is used to make my crepes.”

“Of course, Ma’am.” Thomas immediately obliged. “I’ll make certain the kitchen knows to keep everything kosher. And as for you, Ma’am?”

“I’ll have the usual.” Blythe confirmed. “With extra butter.”

“Very good, Ma’am.” Thomas responded, before turning to Gibbs. “And for you, Sir?”

Deciding, then and there, that if Alice was going to make known her kosher requirements without feeling any embarrassment or regret about it, that he, himself, could very well do the same where regarded his vegetarianism, Gibbs spoke up and for the very first time in his life requested a slight alteration be made to his meal.

“I think I’ll have the brioche French toast, as well.” Gibbs decided. “But can you swap out the bacon for something else? I don’t eat meat.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, but our chef doesn’t allow for any substitutions to be made.” Thomas cordially denied. “I can, however, make certain that your French toast is cooked on the meatless griddle.”

“That’ll be fine.” Blythe answered for him. “We can just swap our bacon and fruit with each other.” 

And while, granted, Gibbs would have ordinarily been greatly annoyed with somebody presuming to speak for him, especially on matters where food was involved, he had to admit it was rather nice to have somebody around who was willing to talk for him when it was obvious he was uncomfortable with doing so on his own.

“Excellent.” Thomas appraised. “I’ll be sure to put in your orders straight away.”

“Please do so.” Alice responded, handing the professional waiter their menus.

“Of course.” Thomas agreed, bowing his head slightly before taking his leave.

This time, it was _Blythe_ who refrained from speaking until their waiter had gone, clearly considerate enough of said man’s potential feelings of loyalty towards his place of employment to refrain from voicing, what Gibbs felt, was a rather valid complaint towards said establishment until there was no danger of Thomas overhearing it.

“I’ll never understand the whole ‘no substitution’ policy.” Blythe griped. “I mean, they already have all the ingredients in the kitchen. I can’t imagine it’s all that difficult to put something different on a plate.”

“It’s not about having the supplies, Blythe. It’s about the _presentation_.” Alice confidently asserted. “I mean, some foods just don’t pair well together.”

“Nonsensical thinking like that is why I prefer Ihops.” Blythe countered. “If I want gravy with my toast, or sugar for my coke, I should be able to get it.”

More than just a little taken aback by the fact that Blythe seemed to think requesting additional sugar for her Cokes was a rational request, and slightly concerned where regarded the current status of her teeth enamel, Gibbs didn’t even have time to interject himself into the conversation before Alice was speaking again.

“At least when one dines at a formal restaurant, they can enjoy the reasonable expectation of not being stabbed by a junky in the bathrooms.”

“Well now you just sound elitist.” Blythe playfully accused. “What’s life without a little thrill?”

“It’s hardly elitist to want to dine in a peaceful atmosphere.” Alice sallied.

“Perhaps not,” Blythe allowed, “But I still assert that its patently ridiculous for restaurants not to offer reasonable substitutions. I mean, if a chef can’t pair two random things together and make it look good, maybe he’s not all that great a chef.”

Seeming to be more than just a little familiar with the concept of debating her girlfriend on various subjects, no matter how random, Alice quirked an unamused brow in Blythe’s direction before making a fairly solid point of her own.

“You’ve burned soup before.”

“Only because I wasn’t used to your fancy open-flame stove yet.” Blythe passionately defended. “How the hell was I supposed to know how to tell whether it was on low or high?”

Clearly sensing that she had just been bested, if the slight frown on her face was anything to go off of, Alice exhaled softly and made a great show of taking a generous sip of her wine.

“You’re lucky I love you, Blythe.” She finally quipped.

“Believe me, I know.” Blythe answered, pecking her girlfriend on the chin.

Fortunately, for the sake of Gibbs’s anxiety, there was but precious little time for a new debate to emerge betwixt his two new acquaintances before Thomas arrived with their meals and distributed the plates accordingly.

“Shall I bring anything else to the table?” Thomas queried, topping of their glasses of wine with expert precision.

“Does the kitchen have any _grape_ jam?” Gibbs reluctantly questioned, sincerely hating to be a bother but nonetheless _loathing_ the apricot jam and marmalade spread currently bowled up on his plate.

“Sir,” Thomas addressed, glancing nervously at Alice, “I’m afraid our grape spread isn’t kosher.”

“And Jethro isn’t Jewish.” Blythe firmly asserted, before looking dubiously his way as an afterthought. “Are you?”

Rather preoccupied with the troubling though that he had somehow offended Alice with his request, even though Blythe had seemed to get away with ordering pork just fine, Gibbs was more than just a little grateful to hear Alice’s exculpating response.

“Jethro can’t possibly be Jewish, Blythe. He was drinking a _latte_ when we met him.” Alice calmly reminded her girlfriend, before turning her focus back unto their waiter. “Do bring some grape jam to the table, Thomas. My dietary obligations are my own concern, thank you.”

“Of course, Ma’am.” Thomas acquiesced. “Right away, Ma’am.”

Still feeling slightly embarrassed about the slight kerfuffle he had just caused, resulting in their waiter getting scolding like a little boy by Alice, Gibbs turned to his wineglass for comfort and a took hearty few sips of his win before finding himself comfortable enough to speak again.

“I’m not going to be offending you, am I, with the grape jam?” Gibbs questioned.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Alice reassured. “My wife is ten minutes away from stuffing her face with _pork_. And it doesn’t get much more traif than that.”

“If anything, I should have asked _you_ if my bacon-eating was going to be a problem.” Blythe countered, belatedly reminded of his vegetarianism.

“So long as you don’t try and force me to eat any of it, we’re good.” Gibbs clarified.

“And so long as you keep that grape jam away from me, _we’re_ good.” Alice tolerantly echoed. But now, if nobody minds, I’d like to say a short prayer so we start eating.”

“Of course.” Gibbs responded, respectfully bowing his head a bit.

Because even though he didn’t believe, at all, in the existence of some omnipotent deity, after have been forced to watch his mom suffer slowly and painfully of cancer, and especially not after having seen atrocity after atrocity in Vietnam, Gibbs had still been raised to be tolerant of another person’s beliefs, so long as they weren’t inherently hateful or harmful.

Thankfully, for the sake of his own comfort, as well as for the general well-being of Blythe’s currently grumbling stomach, Alice had decided to mutter only a line or two of prayer before declaring herself done – breezing through her Yiddish so quickly that the whole entire prayer seemed recited more from memory than a genuine spiritual inspiration. Although, if he stopped to really think about it, Gibbs supposed he’d be likely to lose some originality and inspiration along the way, too, if he were compelled to pray before every meal.

“Short and sweet.” Gibbs applauded, speaking to his friend in Yiddish.

Halfway through bringing a forkful of strawberry crepe to her mouth, Alice nearly dropped her silverware in surprise when she heard his reply.

“You speak Yiddish?” She demanded; brown eyes gone wide.

“Conversationally, yes.” Gibbs admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed now that he had called attention unto himself.

“Jesus,” Blythe exclaimed, biting into a crispy strip of bacon, “You really are a clever thing, aren’t you?”

Never one to enjoy the sensation of having all eyes on him, Gibbs faltered at the question and anxiously swiped up the small dish of grape jelly that Thomas had deposited on the table as they prayed, welcoming the slightly distraction it provided in allowing him to lower his eyes to his toast as he smeared the warm bread with the spread.

“I just have a knack for picking up on languages, that’s all.” 

“ _Languages?_ ” Blythe repeated, putting emphasis on the pluralized word. “Which ones?”

Not wanting to run the risk of sounding like a braggard by giving voice to the fact that he had a good command of nearly a dozen languages, and a competent understanding of a few others, Gibbs humbly shrugged and evaded the question as best as possible.

“Just a few.” He allowed, before turning the topic back to food. “Pass the syrup?”

“Which?” Blythe asked, having somehow accumulated all five canteens of such.

“Maple, please.”

For that point onward, a comfortable sort of silence elapsed as they all tended to their respective meals, with they, none of them, feeling the need to fill an awkward silence that didn’t exist of the inclination to speak simply for the fact that such a social convention was expected of a group of people while dining. And for somebody like Gibbs, who was by that point in his life so damn familiar with feeling distinctly and aggravatingly uncomfortable around other people, even those that he knew intimately well, it was nothing short of an actual blessing for him to realize, belatedly, just how effortlessly comfortable he felt in the company of two woman, whom he had known less than a week, all while eating in such a silence it would seem, to strangers, as if they had been such good friends for so long that conversation was no longer needed to correctly express their sentiments.

“Jethro,” Blythe spoke up, after a comfortable ten minutes had elapsed, “We almost forgot to ask – what are you doing Monday evening?”

To be perfectly truthful, Gibbs hadn’t been planning anything particular for his Monday evening other than a long bath and an early retirement to bed. But, again, there was just no way in hell that he would ever admit such a thing out loud.

“So long as we don’t get a new case, nothing.”

“So, you’d be free around eight, then?” Alice further interrogated.

“Yes.” Gibbs confirmed, starting to wonder what his two new acquaintances were getting at.

Because unless it was one of his agents asking him that question, or Ducky, nobody ever asked him what he was doing on a particular night unless it was with the ulterior motive of manipulating him into doing some kind of favor for them.

“Perfect.” Alice smiled. “You can come to our book club.”

A bit overwhelmed by all the sudden invitations he was receiving of late, seeing as how his fellow officers had never even bothered to include him in their weekly trips to the bar, when such would have been the unofficial status-quo at the time, Gibbs found his stomach flooding with a ridiculous amount of warmth.

“It’s nothing too intense,” Blythe insisted, seeming to sense his distress, “It’s just wine, snacks, and books.”

“Well, I’d _like_ to,” Gibbs allowed, “But if you’re already in the middle of a book – “

“We just finished Anna Karenina last week.” Alice interrupted. “All we’re going to do on Monday is pick out a new book.”

Well, Gibbs thought to himself, that didn’t sound so bad. Because so long as he didn’t voice any suggestions of his own during the selecting, he ran absolutely no risk, whatsoever, in creating a stir amongst the book club he had just been invited to.

“Our friend Kitty is hosting, too, by the way, and she’s the nicest person you’ll meet.” Blythe advised, scribbling down an address on a napkin. “Here, that’s where she lives. And that’s my number, in case you get lost.”

Glancing quickly down at the address and finding the locale to be in a fairly standard neighborhood, not that far away from his own, Gibbs highly doubted that he would get lost. That was not to say, however, that he didn’t have any other, more legitimate concerns.

“Will there be a lot of people there?”

“Just three, not counting us.” Alice clarified. “We prefer to keep it more intimate. It makes for better conversation.”

While Gibbs would have much preferred two, or maybe even one, in terms of people he was about to be cajoled into meeting, he _did_ feel capable of tolerating three.

“And you’re sure your friend won’t mind me coming?”

For as childish as such a question made him sound, Gibbs felt deeply that the only thing worse than being in front of a crowd of new people was being in front of a crowd of new people that didn’t want you there.

“Of course not,” Blythe dismissed, “Kitty knows we wouldn’t bring just anyone along.”

And, even though Gibbs tried to prevent such a spontaneous act from taking place, he found he couldn’t quite help but smile upon hearing the news that his new friends didn’t think of him as just ‘anyone.’


	5. Chapter 5

Had Gibbs not already known, intimately, the neighborhood he had been directed to not that long ago, by virtue of said area possessing one of his very favorite coffee shops, up until he had been introduced to the sheer perfection that was _The Closet_ , he might very well have been taken aback, and somewhat awed, by the undeniably cute and somewhat Disneyesque homes that comprised the entire six-block area, as such overtly welcoming sights were not often seen in a city where HOA’s were known to be as militant as third-world dictators and where the painting of houses was often seen as a cost-prohibitive and frivolous expense when the vast majority of people shelled out half their incomes on their mortgage or rent alone. In fact, had Gibbs not already purchased the home he currently resided in, out of nothing more than an apathetic desire to have somewhere decent to lodge in between deployments and training, and had rather taken the actual time required to hunt for a house that actually suited his tastes, he was all but certain he would have ended up in one of the beautiful Tudor-style homes lining the slightly curvy streets. Or, if nothing else, perhaps a cozy little cottage up on Chesapeake Bay. Hell, Gibbs could even imagine moving back into his childhood home to care for his parents once the inevitable effects of advanced age took hold on them. He was already set to inherit the place anyways, along with the store. Although, if he were being perfectly honest with himself, something he was striving to do more of lately, Stillwater just didn’t appeal to him – in the manner that the vast majority of small tows didn’t appeal to those who were even marginally different. Perhaps he would just have to move his mother and father in with him, then, once the time came – though he highly doubted that his stubborn-ass mother would ever allow for such a thing to happen, and where Anne lead, Jackson followed. Oh well then, maybe the Stillwater house would just a be a home for one of his future grandchildren, or even a nice summer home for him once he finally retired. But, again, Gibbs really didn’t want to think about the inevitable happening to his parents just yet – especially not a night he had reserved for strictly for leisure.

Fortunately for him, his suddenly morose mood was almost instantly restored as he came to the end of the curved street he had been directed to and subsequently took notice of the gorgeous home residing on said oversized plot, as well as the wondrous grounds surrounding it. For never one, in his whole entire life, save for that one awful afternoon wherein his paternal grandmother had bribed his gullible toddler-ass with forbidden bubblegum into accompanying her to some boring greenhouse museum in Harrisburg, had Gibbs ever seen so much greenery in one confined place. Because, no exaggeration, Kitty’s yard was filled, almost past the point of capacity, with flowers and plant of every sort, the veritable mishmash of greenery very nearly concealing the whole entire view of the home itself, save for its pointed roof. In fact, had it not been for the brightly colored yellow numbers decorating the wrought-iron gate encompassing the property, Gibbs might never have known whether he had arrived the correct destination or not. For aside from the near absence of any identifying signage, barring the aforementioned stenciling, there was likewise no other cars parked on the street aside from a pink Prius, which he could only assume belonged to the owner of the house.

But, despite the fact that he was very clearly the first to arrive, something that caused him a ridiculous amount of discomfort, as well as confusion, seeing as how he had only arrived five minutes early for this particular outing, Gibbs surprised himself by realizing that he would much rather face the particular brand of awkwardness that came with meeting someone new than he would waste his gas, or risk arrest, by circling around the block until a more familiar Prius pulled up to the curb. 

And so, thus decided, Gibbs took a series of quick, deep, and bracing breaths before forcing himself to crack open the door of his truck and dismount, pausing only long enough in his endeavor to grab hold of the banana bread and homemade butter he had brought along as a hostess gift before forcing himself to move forward and onward through the unlocked white gate and into the veritable wonderland of a garden concealed within. And, feeling much like Lucy Pevensie did when first arriving in Narnia, Gibbs found himself somewhat wide-eyed as he strolled past beautiful snowdrops and irises, eye-catching bloodroots and bluebells, gorgeous dogwood and spicewood shrubs, and even some breath-taking Lenten roses, which he found it rather necessary to stop and observe for a spell before pushing even further into the greenery encapsulating him.

It was only as Gibbs crept further and further into the mini-jungle of a yard, bypassing flora of every last kind, that he began to take note of the various pieces of art strategically arranged around the deeper parts of the greenery, the majority of such being abstract pieces, such as an erupting geyser made almost entirely out of colored beads, as well as a hearty selection of ceramic crows and ravens, the likes of which were all tucked safely away in some hand-painted planting pot or another.

Gibbs was just admiring a rather oddly shaped birdbath, it’s warped nature rendering it all but obsolete for bird-water purposes, when disaster, in the shape of a garden hose concealed beneath the two-inches of grass gracing the yard, nearly struck and sent him stumbling towards the muddy ground below. In fact, had it not been for a conveniently located shepherds hook, hosting an impossibly large spider-leg plant, he might very well have taken that tumble and ruined his green sweater – the very one Tony had gotten him for their first Christmas together. But, rather than dwell on the unpleasantness of such a hypothetically situation, Gibbs quickly righted himself and marched onward, this time at a much slower pace, until he was face-to-face with the house itself – said abode being painted a charmingly soft pink color with a white door and trim to compliment it. And, before he could change his mind, Gibbs rapped softly on the door.

“Oh, I hear a friend at the door!” A sugary voice hummed, the sound carrying easily through a cracked open window.

It was only a precious few seconds later, a startling brief amount of time for those who wished to fortify themselves, that the pretty white door was pushed open with a flourish – giving birth to the view of a skinny woman with wild black curls and big green eyes, her expression an excited and friendly one as she practically beamed up into his face with all the vigor of a person welcoming a long-lost friend back into their lives. Which, despite being a distinctly flattering sort of experience, kind of threw Gibbs for a loop, as he had been anticipating nothing but calm civility at best and mild apathy at worst.

“You must be Jethro!” The woman who was surely Kitty grinned, all but radiating genuine friendliness as she wrapped him up in a quick, but powerful, bearhug. “Oh, I just _knew_ I was going to like you! Come in, come in!”

And, before he could even so much as properly introduce himself with a handshake, let alone take a moment to recover from just having had all the air squeezed out of his lungs, Gibbs found himself being lead, via hand, into a living room bloated with even more plants and art pieces, the likes of which both seemed to shine beneath the multi-colored lights given off by a series of handmade stained-glass windows.

“This room is amazing.” Gibbs muttered to himself, the spontaneous utterance falling out of his mouth before he could do anything to stop it.

But honestly, the cozy little room really _was_ quite spectacular and singular in nature. If not for the various, yet harmonious, shades of pink it had been done up in, then most certainly because of the heavy presence of all those little trinkets and knickknacks that gave the room a distinct personality all of its own. And, were he being perfectly honest with himself, the whole color schematic of the enclosed space really wasn’t all that far off from his childhood bedroom back in Stillwater – minus the distinct lack of china dolls and rudimentary charcoal sketchings.

“Do you really like it?” Kitty beamed, looking flattered beyond belief by the simple compliment. “Oh, I just _knew_ we were going to be great friends. Artists get along very well, you know.”

“How did you know I was an artist?” Gibbs questioned, self-consciously wondering just how much Alice and Blythe had talked about him to their friends.

Because as much as he liked to think of himself as having risen above all those little anxious hangups that had solidified in his psyche during bootcamp and the grunt years that had followed, after first being nurtured and cultivated in middle school, the suspicion, whether founded or not, that somebody had been talking about you in your absence was never a pleasant one, as Gibbs had learned, quite the hard way, that such whisperings usually always preceded a certain type of shunning and shaming. And while Gibbs knew, at least subconsciously, that he was somewhat safe from that particular brand of ostracization in the environment he was currently in, given the actual queerness of Alice and Blythe, whom he doubted would have been invited to the affair had Kitty actually had an issue with homosexuality, it still stood to reason, at least within the limitations of his own dysfunctional mind, that his two new friends might have let it slip, whether purposefully or accidentally, that he was every bit the bastard he was chronically being accused of. But, again, if Gibbs was forcing himself to be rational, like his therapist was teaching him to do, he had account for the fact that he likely wouldn’t have been invited if that was, indeed, the case.

“An artist can just recognize one of their own, that’s all.” Kitty shrugged with a friendly smile. “Now how about some coffee? I just had an excellent blend delivered from India yesterday, and it’s _delicious_ – like nothing you’ve ever tasted before.”

“Well, I’m not going to say ‘no’ to coffee.” Gibbs agreed, following after the skinny woman as she led him away from the living room.

As could only be reasonably expected of a person so purely uninhibited and eclectic in nature, Kitty’s cozy little kitchenette was every bit just as eccentrically styled and decorated as her living room and yard – with its largest wall being decorated entirely with glass stones, in almost every last shade and color imaginable, and a healthy medley of medieval-looking wizard and wizard figurines lined up all the along the generous shelving of the remaining butter-colored walls.

“It must get pretty in here,” Gibbs observed, “When the sun hits the wall.”

“Oh, it is.” Kitty promptly assured, already hunched over her pink coffee pot. “I’ll have to have you over for sunrise coffee someday soon.”

“I’d like that.” Gibbs allowed.

Pausing for just a brief moment to flash him a quick smile, one which seemed to effortlessly convey that she, too, would enjoy just such an occasion taking place, Kitty turned to face her cluttered counters and gestured, via the waving of a hand behind her back, for him to take a seat at one of the white velvet barstools lining the island as she approached a rather beautiful ceramic sculpture of a snow-capped mountain and poked one of the small painted houses at its base.

“What is that thing?” Gibbs asked, his curiosity getting the best of him as he watched a cloud of steam beginning to rise from the little mountain.

“Oh, it’s my coffee maker.” Kitty explained, pulling back the peak of the mountain to reveal the innards of a stereotypical coffee machine. “I just made a ceramic cover to put over it, so it wasn’t so bland. I don’t like for my rooms to be dull.”

“You’re big into sculpture work, then?” Gibbs pressed, feeling as though he had seen more than enough evidence of such to make that assertion without sounding foolish.

“Sculpture-work is certainly my favorite, yes.” Kitty confirmed, gently pushing a sunflower-yellow mug into the side cleft of her little mountain. “What medium do you prefer, Jethro?”

Even though he had almost always known himself to be the most fond of crafting portraitures, preferably with the aid of water colors, though charcoal was tolerable enough if exceptions had to be made, Gibbs still found himself taking the time to contemplate the question before he answered his hostess, as there had been a significant period in his early adolescence, where pottery had appealed to him even more than joyriding his uncle’s truck did. There had just been something special, he fondly reflected, about taking a hardened lump of red clay and manipulating it into something as beautiful as a ceramic doll or a delicate teapot – even _if_ he been forced, my social constraints, into immediately pawning off his little masterpieces to his female friends to avoid being harangued by the other boys or, worse yet, forbidden from participation in that particular segment of Sophomore art. Although, if he really stopped to consider everything, perhaps it wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world for him to have been booted from the art classroom for those meager three weeks, as all his hearty participation in such a segment had left him with was chronically dirty fingernails and a fierce yearning for the continuance of an art education he knew couldn’t reasonably be fulfilled in the suffocatingly small town of Stillwater.

“I used to really enjoy making portraits.” Gibbs divulged. “I had fun with pottery, too, for a time.”

“Have you made anything recently?” Kitty inquired, removing the sunflower-yellow cup from beneath her softly humming coffee pot and putting a primrose pink one in its place.

Reflecting, a bit morosely, upon all those little half-hearted doodles he had scrawled upon napkins and scraps of paper, which had then subsequently been tossed in the garbage, either by himself or a diligent custodian, Gibbs frowned a bit and found himself staring down at the painting mosaic that comprised the entirety of the island he was seated at – finding himself somehow unable to meet Kitty’s eyes when they were so full of genuine concern for his wellbeing.

“Not for the longest time, no.” Gibbs answered honestly.

“Why not?” Kitty delicately questioned, placing the now coffee-filled yellow mug in front of him. “If you don’t have the space, you’re more than welcome to use my own gallery. It’s certainly big enough for the both of us.”

“It’s not that I don’t have enough space,” Gibbs politely refuted, “It’s the fact that I don’t have the inspiration, anymore.”

And it was no mere deflection that Gibbs was making either, for not since the days before he had been conscripted had he found anyone, or anything, in his life that he was willing to immortalize in a portraiture. His passion, quite simply, had died the night of his first experience with combat, when the sounds of ‘enemy’ combatants, some still just kids like himself, screaming as their skin sloughed off replaced all his thoughts of color theory and mixed media with trauma and mild PTSD.

“That’s tragic, Jethro.” Kitty commiserated, both earnest and sincere. “I’m sorry that’s happened to you.”

More than just a little uncomfortable with so much sympathy being paid his way, on account of him being entirely undeserving of it, Gibbs grimaced a bit and tried his hardest to change the subject.

“It happens to a lot of people.” Gibbs shrugged, taking a tentative sip of his coffee.

“But it shouldn’t.” Kitty insisted, looking genuinely distraught at his misfortune. “A person’s inspiration is what gives their life flavor. Nobody should have to live an uninspired life.”

“Really,” Gibbs persisted, wishing to do nothing more than make his hostess cheerful again, “It’s not – “

“You know what we need to do, Jethro?” Kitty interrupted, laying an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “We need to reawaken your inspiration!”

While Kitty’s heart was clearly in the right place, and the gesture a genuinely nice one, Gibbs refused to allow himself to become too excited at the offer, as his tender-hearted hostess hadn’t been the first person to try and get him out of the permanent funk his time in Vietnam had put him in. And if his own mother, a veritable goddess in his eyes, hadn’t been able to do it, Gibbs doubted a near-stranger could – no matter _how_ earnestly she approached the task.

“I – “

“There’s this lovely little art gallery, not very far from here.” Kitty pressed onward, her fingers soft and comforting as they squeezed his arm. “We should start there! And then onto the Museum of Local Art, of course – “

“That sounds nice, really, but – Is something _burning_?”

Unfortunately, for all involved, the distraction of a smoking stove was far from a welcome one, as the acrid smoke it released into the small kitchen, in only a matter of seconds, was almost too much to tolerate.

“My cake!” Kitty cried, hurrying over to the smoking oven as Gibbs moved quickly to open the kitchen window. “Good Lord, look at this mess!”

Reluctantly pulling his head back inside, and away from the crisp breeze outside, Gibbs was promptly met with a rather devastated-looking Kitty chucking a burned black brick into a lace-wrapped garbage can.

“Why does baking have to be so touchy?” His hostess bemoaned, taking her failure quite seriously.

“You were a bit distracted, that’s all.” Gibbs comforted, accepting mutual responsibility for the destruction of the cake. “And we still have banana bread.”

Seeming to perk up a bit, at the reminder of the banana bread he had brought along, Kitty smiled softly at him to express her appreciation.

“You’re a lifesaver, Jethro.”


	6. Chapter 6

With the confines of their small kitchen now fully aired out, or at least as well as anyone could ever hope after only a quarter of an hour, with nothing more than the aid of an opened window and a few strategically placed fans, Gibbs found that he was finally able to enjoy having coffee with Kitty, their earlier conversation having fortunately, during some point of their harried air cleansing, shifted from uncomfortable talk of his lapsed inspiration to that of the more palatable subject of pets instead, as one of Kitty’s four cats had chosen, seemingly at random, to investigate the kitchen during the heart of the ‘smokening’ and mewl loudly at them both a series of angry accusation before stalking off, quite angrily, to return to his nap.

“You’ll have to forgive Salem, Jethro, he gets rather ornery if his naps are interrupted.” Kitty apologized once more, as the grating sounds of the black cat’s angry howls once more trickled into the kitchen. 

“He’s sort of like my son, then.” Gibbs quipped. “And just as hairy.”

“Oh,” Kitty smiled, her dark green eyes taking on an excited twinkle, “You have a son?”

Already suspecting that a request for a photo would directly follow his impending confirmation of such a fact, Gibbs saved them both a bit of time by slipping his wallet out of his pocket and removing his favorite photograph of Tony from it before passing it over to an excited Kitty.

“Such a handsome young man!” Kitty gushed, her flattery sincere. “What’s his name?”

“Tony.” Gibbs supplied, as proud as any father to hear his child’s praises being sung.

Because even though he hadn’t done any of the work required to actually _produce_ said child, Gibbs had, without a doubt, been the one primarily responsible for molding Tony into the man he was today – which a lot more than that fuckface Senior could claim.

“He’s just absolutely gorgeous.” Kitty appraised. “He has your smirk.”

“Thank you.” Gibbs smiled, more than just a little flattered. “Do you have any children?”

Looking as if Gibbs had just asked her whether or not she had ever taken a series of rabid squirrels under her care, Kitty involuntarily grimaced and immediately tried to hide the expression behind her oversized coffee mug.

“No, not unless you count my fur babies.” Kitty divulged, the loving way in which she referred to her cats making it quite clear where she stood on that topic. “Motherhood…just wasn’t an adventure I was wanting to experience.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Gibbs reassured, sipping at the last of his coffee.

“My mother would have begged to differ.” Kitty tittered, her small smile refusing to reach her eyes. “Would you like more coffee?”

“Please.” Gibbs nodded, sensing his hostesses need to change the subject.

Thankfully, by the time Kitty had refilled both their mugs, and returned to her seat directly beside him, her spirits had somehow lifted back to where they had been when they had first met, just a little above half an hour ago.

“This coffee is delicious.” Gibbs complimented, sipping the brew slowly so that he might better savor the taste.

“Oh, thank you.” Kitty smiled. “I’ll be sure to send some home with you.”

“You don’t have to do – “

Much to his mild distress, as well as slight discomfort, Gibbs was prematurely cut short from assuring his new friend that there was really no need for such unreciprocated generosity, seeing as how he had hardly done anything to deserve it as of yet, by the noticeably late arrival of a fellow guest, one who opted to make her arrival known simply by waltzing into the kitchen entirely unannounced, her short blonde hair terribly wind-blown and her freckled nose scrunched up in a marked disgust that was only softened by the teasing twinkle residing in her eyes.

“What is it you’ve burned this time?” The muscular woman ribbed, peering down into the trash can to examine the evidence. “You weren’t playing at making fudge again, were you?”

Evidently more than just a little familiar with her stocky friend’s raillery, judging by the overtly tolerant smile she responded with, Kitty shook her head in a mature acknowledgment of her defeat and allowed a soft sigh to escape her lips.

“It was a cake…at one point in time.” Their hostess confessed, a slight blush coloring her cheeks.

“At least you didn’t set the oven on fire this time.” The newcomer comforted, before finally turning her focus onto Gibbs. “You must be Jethro, then.”

“I am.” He confirmed, accepting the muscular hand she held out before him.

“I’m Imogen.” The newcomer introduced, shaking his hand with a surprising amount of strength. “But, _please_ , call me Immy.”

Preferring, himself, to be addressed by a nickname, Gibbs committed the bastardized form of his new acquittance’s name to memory and silently vowed to remember to use it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Immy.” Gibbs expressed, remembering his manners.

“Same.” Immy agreed, giving his hand one last enthusiastic pump. “Same.”

And then, almost as if she didn’t know her own strength, Immy nearly knocked all the breath from his body by thwapping him soundly on the shoulder without warning.

“Welcome to bookclub, then.” Immy enthused, giving his shoulder one last thwap. “I sure hope you’re prepared.”

But before Gibbs could so much as even launch a proper investigation into just what the fuck _that_ ominous statement was supposed to mean, much less summon the air back into his lungs, Kitty was sitting up straighter and taking all the steps necessary to prevent a third slap.

“Jethro brought some banana bread, Immy.” Kitty abruptly announced, tactfully distracting the handsy blonde. “Why don’t you cut yourself off a slice? I know it’s your cheat day.”

Thankfully, for the sake of both his lungs and shoulders, the purposefully-distracting suggestion was promptly accepted by Imogen, who, without even pausing to grab a plate, or paper towel, snatched a butter knife from a nearby drawer and cut herself off a large slab of the banana bread before bringing the large portion up to her mouth with a murderous intent showing clearly in her eyes.

“Oh, Immy, use a plate, please.” Kitty fussed, watching a series of crumbs fall to the floor with a frown. “I _just_ swept.”

Only seeming to realize the little social faux paus she had committed once it had been straightforwardly pointed out to her, Imogen had the grace to blush a bit as she shuffled over to one of the cabinets lining the yellow wall and pulled it open.

“Have it your way.” The tall blonde obliged, with a slight frown. “But if I accidentally break one of your ceramic plates again, it’s your fault for making me use one.”

“Just use the China, then, I don’t mind.” Kitty advised

Carefully putting the green, self-painted, ceramic plate she had just grabbed back in it’s appropriate pile, with a delicate air that belied her stature, Imogen closed the cupboard before opening an adjacent one, filled to the brim with fine China, and selecting a dessert plate for use.

“ _Just_ the China, she says.” Imogen teasingly mocked, returning to the island for her bread and a generous sample of the butter.

“I spent hours making each ceramic plate,” Kitty excused, “I just inherited the China.”

Her mouth already filled, past capacity, with the butter-slathered banana bread, Imogen’s response to that little remark was rendered indecipherable, as she thankfully had the social graces not to speak with her mouth full.

“This is delicious, Jethro.” Imogen applauded, licking remnants of butter from her fingers. “I haven’t tasted anything that good in ages. You own some sort of bakery or something?”

Whilst Gibbs did, in fact, discreetly assist his mother with the keeping up of the baked goods portion of the store during the summer months, particularly so during the week-long summer festival, when the demand for such goods was at its greatest, and nearly impossible to satisfy without all hands on deck, Gibbs felt as if he would by lying if he claimed to possess any ownership of the small bakery attached to the store back home, as said addition was owned chiefly by his mother, and nobody _but_ her. Although, if his mother had it _her_ way, Gibbs would still be back in Stillwater and priming to take over the store someday.

“No.” Gibbs answered, more than just a little flattered. “But thank you.”

“You really should.” Imogen advised, perfectly serious as she sliced herself another large portion of the bread. “You have a gift for it.”

Never one to feel very comfortable beneath the focus of a spotlight, regardless of the reasoning behind it being pointed towards him, Gibbs felt his cheeks burning and clamped down hard on his tongue in a vain attempt to stop his blush from spreading.

“Immy,” Kitty intervened, seeming to sense his discomfort, “Would you like some coffee? Or are you waiting for wine?”

“Oh, Kitty, I think you _already_ know the answer to that.” Imogen quipped, slipping into the barstool on Gibbs’s left. “But I promise I’ll pace myself this time.”

“Can I get that in writing?” Kitty teased, passing her blonde friend a napkin.

It was only as Imogen was stretching out one of her muscular hands across the expanse of the island, to accept the napkin, that Gibbs took note of all the various scratches and bruises covering her sun-darkened skin.

“I promise I haven’t murdered anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Imogen assured, having somehow taken note of his silent examination. “I got these scratches hiking off-trail, and the Park Ranger who yelled at me can vouch for that.”

“Why was a Park Ranger yelling at you?” Kitty fussed. “You didn’t have Spike out without a leash again, did you?”

“I was hiking off-trail.” Imogen repeated, feeling no real need to elaborate. “And apparently they don’t much care for that sort of thing.”

“I’m sure it’s for liability reasons.” Kitty opined. “Though I still don’t see why the Park Ranger would feel the need to yell at you. I’m sure a quiet warning would have sufficed.”

More familiar than he wished to be with men in minor positions of authority abusing their powers, given that he had experienced more than his fair share of lesser officers taking out their feelings of inadequacy on him, Gibbs found himself nodding along in agreement to Kitty’s statement without hesitation.

“To be perfectly honest,” Imogen divulged, now working on her third slice of bread, “I think he was more concerned that Spike was a bear than he was that I would get lost.”

“To be perfectly honest,” Kitty echoed, “I’m still not sure that he _isn’t_.”

“Spike is just a big boy, that’s all.” Imogen defended.

“I’m just saying,” Kitty persisted, “I’ve never seen a German Shepherd that size. I’m honestly starting to think Spike is some sort of dinosaur at this point, or wolf.”

And, even though Gibbs _knew_ , intrinsically, that the two women were not really squabbling, or even earnestly debating, he still found himself feeling the rather strong need to play the part of a moderator, not wishing for the playful banter to develop into anything more heated and uncomfortable.

“One of my agents has a German Shepherd the size of a small horse.” Gibbs interjected, almost wishing he had a photo to prove that he wasn’t exaggerating.

“See, this is why Kitty prefers cats.” Imogen opined. “Can you imagine having a horse for a house pet when you’re that tiny?”

Even though Kitty was, indeed, somewhat small, at least by his standards, Gibbs found that he couldn’t help but think, to himself, of course, that Imogen’s views on height had been skewed by her own stature, as said blonde was one of the very few women in his life who came up to his chin without heels. In fact, Imogen was one of the very few women in his life, apart from his mother, who might honestly have a decent chance of kicking his ass in a fist fight.

“I’m not that small, Immy.” Kitty defended. “ _Blythe_ is small.”

“That doesn’t negate your own smallness.” Imogen teased, before turning to Jethro and changing the subject with all the grace of a seizing elephant. “Do you still work? What do you do for a living?”

“I investigate crimes for the Navy.” Gibbs informed.

“A stressful job like that you’re _still_ not retired?” Imogen questioned, looking more than just a little surprised to have learned that not all middle-aged individuals were looking to stop working just as soon as possible.

“Some people thrive under stress.” Kitty interjected. “Your wife if a _trauma surgeon_ , you should know that.”

“A fair enough point.” Imogen allowed, before turning back to Gibbs. “This butter is delicious, where did you get it?” 

Almost insulted at the very idea that his butter could ever compare to that of anything purchased at a store, Gibbs found himself frowning and answering the question a bit more forcefully than was strictly necessary.

“I made it.”

“What, like with an urn?” Imogen asked, eyes gone wide with surprise.

“They actually have butter-making machines now, that do all the churning for you.” Gibbs extrapolated. “All I had to do was make up the batter.”

And then, of course, _remake_ the batter after Tony had stuck his grimy-ass fingers into the mix for a taste of what he had presumed, at the time, was cookie batter.

“Of course they do.” Imogen mumbled. “They have machines for _everything_ now.”

“Fortunately.” Gibbs responded. “I wouldn’t want to have to drive a team of horses in this weather.”

“It’s forty-five degrees outside.” Imogen scoffed. “I call _that_ shorts weather.”

Gibbs was just about to protest, vehemently, against such pure unadulterated nonsense when a welcomingly familiar voice cut into the silence and removed his opportunity to do so.

“Nobody wants to see your hairy-ass legs until _after_ Easter.” Blythe razzed, moments before popping into the kitchen with Alice at her side. “Sorry were late, ladies,” She added as an afterthought, “Alice and I were in the middle of a movie and lost track of time.”

“A movie, _right_.” Imogen scoffed, looking pointedly at their disheveled hair.

“ _Imogen!”_ Kitty scolded, looking mortified beyond belief on behalf of her friends.

But, if either half of the newly-arrived couple felt any sort of embarrassment after just having had their sex-life bluntly called into focus, they certainly showed no signs of such as the removed their coats and hanged them on the coat tree located near the kitchen door.

“Who’s ready for wine?” Alice distracted, brandishing the large bottle of red she had just carried in.

“I’m _always_ ready for wine.” Imogen answered. “ _Always_.”

“Yes,” Alice quipped, moving to open a cupboard, “That goes without saying, doesn’t it? You’re the only Gentile I know who can outdrink a Jew during Passover.”

“I can’t help it that I’m an Amazonian.” Imogen deflected, slicing herself off another slab of bread. “I come from a family of large people.”

Still rifling through the cupboard she had only just opened, with a vacant expression on her face that made it all but clear she wasn’t fully listening to the excuses being made, or even the person making them, Alice simply nodded vaguely in response to her friend’s commentary before addressing her girlfriend with far more reverence.

“Blythe, Dear, what’s that you’re eating? It smells heavenly.”

“Jethro brought banana bread and homemade butter.” Imogen supplied, speaking for Blythe who now had a mouthful of the bread. “It’s to die for.”

“I wouldn’t say – “ Gibbs began, only to get cut short.

“Blythe,” Alice interrupted, “Cut me off a slice, would you?”

“Way ahead of you, Babe.” Blythe assured, already slicing into the bread. “Would anyone else like a slice?”

“A small one for me, please.” Kitty requested. “From the butt, if nobody else wants it.”

When it soon proved, naturally, that nobody was eager to claim the butt of the loaf for themselves, as such a portion was naturally the least favorable part of a loaf of _anything_ , Blythe sliced off the additional piece required off her and plated it before sending off to a grateful Kitty, who likewise glanced at Jethro appreciatively as she dabbed a little of his butter unto the bread and took a testing nibble of the whole concoction.

“Here we are.” Alice hummed, finally returning to the table.

And, before Gibbs could even think to stop himself, much less contemplate how his question might be construed, the words were off his lips in seconds.

“Are those wine glasses made of _China_?” 

Pale cheeks turning nearly as red as a cherry, Kitty squirmed uncomfortably and looked almost apologetic as she answered, which was just downright _absurd_ given that said drinking glasses were some of the best pieces of art he had ever seen.

“I just thought of how much fun it was to drink from fancy teacups and I wanted – “

“These are absolutely beautiful, Kitty.” Gibbs interrupted. “I love it.”

And it was no mere assuaging of a friend’s feelings that he was aiming for, either, as the pretty little glasses Kitty had made honestly _did_ remind him, quite vividly, of the delicate little tea-set his paternal grandmother had always allowed him to use for his tea parties, his parents’ concerns that he might somehow damage the centuries old heirloom almost entirely unfounded as he had been ever so careful, even as a toddler, not to allow even the slightest chip to befall the beautifully-patterned set – no matter _how_ angry his toddler-ass used to become when his dollies wouldn’t actually swallow their allotted portions of tea as he so earnestly wished they would.

“Thank you, Jethro.” Kitty smiled, looking touched. “I worked really hard on those. I’m glad you like them.”

“They remind me of my grandmother’s tea-set.” Gibbs divulged, grabbing a glass to better examine the artwork. “Although _hers_ was a floral pattern.” 

Granted, Grandmother Gibbs’s personal set was also far less pink in nature, but still, some things just didn’t need brought up in a conversation.

“I thought of doing florals.” Kitty admitted. “But my love of abstract won out in the end.”

“At least with abstract you’ll never have to worry about someone plagiarizing your work.” Gibbs responded.

“Unless you’ve got a dedicated plagiarist on your hands.” Imogen injected. “But if anyone tries to pull that with you, I’ll pull a Tonya Harding and break their kneecaps.”

“Please don’t break anyone’s kneecaps on my behalf.” Kitty insisted, looking uncomfortable with the very idea. “I prefer my friends not live in prison.”

“And I prefer my ass to be in a comfortable chair.” Blythe declared, sitting awkwardly on the island. “Let’s take this party into the living room.”

Still a little uncomfortable around this new group of people, even Alice and Blyth, whom he had known for the longest, Gibbs waited patiently until everyone else had taken off for the living room before trailing after Imogen as casually as he could manage – trying his hardest, the whole while, not to feel like a lost puppy or freshman as he did so.

“Jethro, over here.” Kitty called out as he entered the living room, patting the small space beside her on a large papasan chair as Alice and Blythe claimed the loveseat as their own and Imogen the ottoman.

While Gibbs would have very much preferred to take one of the recliners for himself, due to the large bubble of personal space such a seat would afford him, he found himself accepting Kitty’s offer nonetheless, his desire not to offend his hostess _far_ outweighing his desire for personal comfort.

“There’s two other chairs open, Immy, why do you always insist on the ottoman?” Alice demanded.

“Because I like to be in the middle of things, that’s why.” Imogen answered, poking her large toes into Alice’s shin. “And so I can do _that_.”

“Get your greasy sausages off my girlfriend.” Blythe growled, sending the ottoman flying across the room and into a wall. “What is wrong with you?”

“That depends on who you ask.” Imogen supplied, using her feet to scoot the ottoman back over to where it had been just moments before. 

“Well, if you ask me, it’s because you’re too tall for the oxygen to reach your brain.” Blythe suggested.

“Well, if you ask _me_ , it sounds like your jealous I can reach the top shelves of things.” Imogen rebuttled.

Fortunately, for the sake of Imogen, as well as Kitty’s living room, Blythe was prevented from launching atop of her fellow blonde by the timely intervention of Alice, who quickly seized hold of the back of her pants and refused to let go until her girlfriend sank back down into her seat.

“No more jokes about people’s height.” Alice declared, speaking with all the authority of a drill sergeant. “Or I swear I’ll lock you both outside.”


	7. Chapter 7

In Kitty Anne Montague’s most humblest of opinions, her turn at hosting ‘book club’ had been going just as well as anyone could have reasonably expected it to, given that such an affair was honestly nothing more than a weekly wine-heavy mingling of some pretty jarringly different personalities – the majority of those personalities being fairly strong in nature, save for her’s and maybe Jethro’s. For aside from a slight few incidences of a negligible concern-level, namely Imogen very nearly shattering an antique lamp with her elbow, and Blythe subsequently speaking more bluntly than she ought to have on the subject of whether or not Kitty ought to have bubble-wrapped her home before Imogen had arrived, no majority calamities, of the sort that warranted either medical or police intervention, had occurred whilst they had waited for the last of their attendees to finally arrive – which was actually quite the miraculous feat, considering that not even a full three weeks ago they had all been forced, as a collective whole, to permanently disinvite Johanna Spitz from any of their future gatherings, after said bigot had gone too far in arguing against Imogen’s assertion that the ending of The Scarlet Letter was less than satisfying. Because as much as they had all agreed that the sharing of unpopular opinions was fair game, so long as they were genuinely held feelings, the way in which Johanna had overreacted to Imogen’s was entirely unforgivable, as no woman, no matter her size, or masculine personality, deserved to be accused of being ‘nothing more than a man in a dress.’ And even though Kitty _had_ , admittedly, felt rather uncomfortable in the moments leading up to her dismissal of Johanna, she was still rather glad she had carried through with it, even _if_ said interaction had wound up with her getting a face full cappuccino and accused of betrayal in the middle of a crowded Starbucks. But, really, barring that particular incident, and a few more minor ones, ‘book club’ tended to run rather well now that their little group had been whittled down to near perfection over the years. And even though she didn’t feel quite comfortable enough to voice her opinion on the subject just yet, Kitty felt even more strongly, despite the short duration of their time together, that Jethro would be the _perfect_ , and much-needed, person to bring their little group to a harmonious completion.

It was only after Marietta arrived, a full and frustrating fifteen minutes late, with a dangerous scowl on her face, and her long-ass, rain-soaked hair dripping small puddles of water onto the freshly mopped floorboards, that Kitty remembered two rather important things, both at once: The first being the exact reason why book club tended, more often than not, to end on a sour and aggravating note, and the second, more important thing, being that she had neglected to warn Jethro about Marietta’s…pricklier…personality – an unignorable character flaw that seemed to only become worse, and more virulent, whenever she was forced to interact with men against her will. And, much to Kitty’s great chagrin, as well as deep shame, she soon found that she could think of no feasible way in which she might politely do so now in a small room very full of people – let alone one containing the very woman whom the warning had warranted. And, in a silent bid to apologize to Jethro for her failure to protect him, she did the only thing she could think to do and grabbed his hand, firmly entwining their fingers together even as Jethro frowned in confusion and gave her a puzzled look.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Marietta demanded, without any preamble at all.

Marietta did, after all, like Alice, possess the annoying proclivity of behaving as if she owned whatever place she happened to be in at the moment. Although, to be fair, unlike Alice, Marietta’s more domineering personality seemed to stem forth from a place of genuine hostility, rather than a subconscious force of habit developed after years of luxury.

“Marietta,” Kitty began, still playing the part of the chipper hostess, “This is Jethro.”

“I don’t care if he’s the second fucking coming of Christ.” Marietta hissed. “Who let a _man_ into our book club?”

Despite knowing Jethro to have been a Marine during a fairly violent and controversial war, as well as the current lead of a specialized group that frequently investigated murders of the worst kind, the way in which her friend’s formerly relaxed posture turned tense, and his expression guarded, in response to Marietta’s unrestrained attack all but confirmed for Kitty her earlier suspicions that Jethro was a sensitive sort of soul – and it was exactly because of that reaction, and that reaction alone, that Kitty allowed her innate sense of protectiveness to spring, unfettered, into life.

“He was invited, Marietta.” Kitty announced, as firmly as her nonconfrontational nature would allow.

But even though she had spoken as firmly Alice did whenever addressing her personal staff, who occasionally liked to argue with the stubborn woman over the placement of holiday decorations and furniture, despite the great futility that came with trying to change their boss’s mind, Kitty could still sense the small waves of anxiety radiating off of Jethro’s person, the taste of his fear and self-consciousness strong on her tongue. And if that didn’t just break Kitty’s heart in two, _nothing_ in this world would.

_“Why?”_ Marietta demands, the single syllable an accusation all on its own.

“Because I invited him.” Kitty answered, surprisingly them all with the heat of her words.

“He’s a _man_ , Catherine.” Marietta accused, glaring sharply at a silent Jethro.

But before Kitty could even _think_ to protest against being addressed by her formal name, a moniker she had downright hated ever since she was old enough to comprehend that such a stuffy sound somehow defined and belonged to her, much less move to defend Jethro against Marietta’s attack on his gender, Imogen had propped herself up on the ottoman, like the awkward little meercat she was, and taken on the duty for herself.

“Astutely noted, Marietta.” She dryly applauded. “Your skills of observation are truly unparalleled.”

“Kudos.” Blythe echoed, filling the room with a series of sarcastic claps.

Although Kitty wasn’t exactly a great fan of sarcasm, given the inherent rudeness of such a form of speaking, she felt rather strongly, in this particular situation, that such a jarring discourtesy could easily be forgiven – as such had not been carried out in the spirit of malice, but rather out of the genuine and applaudable desire to defend their Jethro against and undeserved attack.

“Honestly, who needs another _man’s_ opinion on literature?” Marietta seethed.

“If you don’t like it, you can always go somewhere else.” Imogen suggested.

“I _founded_ this bookclub.” Marietta rebuffed. “And I _refuse_ to see it turned into a

man-pandering mockery of intellectual debate.”

Sensing, intrinsically, that Jethro was very quickly approaching the point of unbearable discomfort, and was likewise in very real danger of being compelled to leave the scene, an onerous outcome she wished to avoid at all costs, Kitty sat up just a little straighter and tried, once more, to make Marietta see reason – opting for a little bit of diplomacy in place of outright militancy. Although, as she spoke, it was only to discover that her tongue had far more contrary views than her mind did, and apparently far more power to wield them, too.

“Jethro is a guest in _my_ home, Marietta, and he’s _staying_.” Kitty firmly declared, surprisingly even herself with the sternness of her voice. “You don’t have to have him in yours, when the time comes, but he’s here in mine now, and you’ll play nicely if you want to stay.”

And then, feeling just a little bit guilty for being so gruff, Kitty quickly followed her earlier words, in a spirit of genuine reconciliation, with a compromise: “So why don’t we all just pick out a book, like usual, and move on with things? There’s no need to start the night off on such a bad foot.”

But, if Kitty’s attempts at diplomacy earned her any sort of goodwill from the freshly chastised Marietta, the livid silence that followed her mild declaration certainly stood in a vivid juxtaposition to that assumption, as it was not often that the somewhat explosive woman in question was cajoled into silence. Mercifully, however, Imogen stepped in and saved the metaphorical day right as the resultant stunned silence had reached the point of becoming all but unbearable – tact having never really been her specialty in the way that earnestness was.

“It’s _my_ turn to pick.” Imogen proudly announced. “And I want Moby Dick.”

“Jesus Christ, what kind of lesbian are you, Immy?” Blythe snarked.

“A _violent_ one.” Imogen retorted, punching her antagonizer straight in the knee cap.

Unfortunately for Imogen, however, the consequences of her action came swiftly via a reflex-activated kick in the chin. Although, if Blythe was feeling all that sorry for her as a result, she certainly showed no signs of such.

“So, it’s settled then,” Kitty loudly announced, tactfully distracting Imogen from retaliating, “The bookclub portion of this evening is over, and wine-hour can begin.”

But, if Marietta had been planning on making things easy, for everybody involved, she certainly didn’t take any steps to achieve that goal.

“And I presume he’s invited to that, too?” She demanded, jerking an angry thumb at Jethro.

“Look, lady,” Jethro began, having finally had enough, “I – “

“My name is Marietta and you’ll address me as such.” Marietta snapped, her eyes blazing with a ridiculous amount of rage.

“Look, Marietta,” Jethro amended, looking just as outraged, “I have no idea why you’re being so hostile right now. I haven’t even said _one_ word to you.”

“You’re encroaching on a space that doesn’t belong to you.” Marietta retorted. “There’s about a million other clubs in this city that cater to men, the least you could do is let us women have our own.”

While it was, admittedly, true that there were precious few organizations and clubs that belonged strictly to women, and which hadn’t inevitably been taken over by a rouge man or two after a period of just a few years, Kitty wasn’t all that sure that Jethro viewed himself as strictly male – but that, she thought to herself, was a conversation for an entirely different time, not to mention private audience.

“This is my house, Marietta.” Kitty gently reminded. “And if you don’t like the guests I invited, it’s up to you to remove yourself.”

“Fine,” Marietta snapped, flopping down hard into a chair, “Let’s let the man take over, why not?” And then, still not content with her outburst, she added: “Why don’t _you_ tell _us_ everything you know about Moby Dick, Jethro, and save us women the trouble of working things out for ourselves. Go on now, don’t be shy – “

“You want my opinion?” Jethro asked, suddenly steely.

“I’d _love_ it.” Marietta spat.

And, before Kitty could even think to stop him, Jethro had slipped out of the chair they were sharing, all the better to face down an unrepentant Marietta with.

“I think you’re a bitch.” Jethro firmly announced. “And worse yet, nobodies even cared enough about you to let you know that.”


	8. Chapter 8

Never one to derive any pleasure from making a scene, particularly so in somebodies home, of all places, where there were certain societal expectations that ought to be upheld by all visitors, Gibbs felt almost felt sick to his stomach over the way he had just reacted to Marietta’s fairly harmless goading, for as confident as he was that said antagonizer had been purposely trying to elicit some sort of reaction out of him, no doubt to bolster her misandry, the way she had immediately thrown her drink in his face, and stormed back out into the rain, confirmed for him that she hadn’t been expecting him to call her out on being a friendless bitch. And, even now, as he awkwardly dabbed away the sticky red wine from his face with a small clump of tissues Imogen had thoughtfully pushed into his hands, the shame he felt towards his earlier actions nearly threatened to overwhelm him, if not because he felt some fairly considerable guilt for having just ruined the evening, then almost certainly because he knew his mother would have skinned him alive had she overheard him speaking to someone in that manner. And while Gibbs certainly didn’t expect for his mother to just suddenly appear out of nowhere, and chastise him with a rigorous mouth-soaping in front of everyone, like she had always threatened would be the case when he was small, the unsettling fact still remained that there were now four blameless women in his company who had just heard him say something remarkably sexist to one of their friends, and there just no way in hell that things were going to end well for him now – even _if_ Blythe and Imogen had nearly choked themselves to death on their stifled laughter immediately following his outburst.

“Ladies,” Gibbs eventually managed, once the awkward silence had become beyond intolerable, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called her a – _that_.”

If not because it was entirely inappropriate for him to have done that in a home that didn’t belong to him, then most certainly because he had just used a fairly gendered slur in front of a group of women he had been hoping to befriend.

Although, if Blythe and Imogen’s eerily matching, and poorly concealed, smiles were anything to go off of, he wouldn’t be ending that evening _completely_ friendless or without support for his earlier decision to retaliate against Marietta.

“I don’t know why you’re acting so guilty.” Blythe lightly admonished. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. And you were a lot nicer than I would have been.”

“It still wasn’t appropriate for me to use that word.” Gibbs persisted, refusing to repeat the filthy epitaph.

Because even though several decades had elapsed since Gibbs had been subjected to his parent’s governance, he swore he could still practically taste the Irish Spring his mother had preferred to use whenever the rare need to wash out his mouth had presented itself.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Jethro?” Imogen theatrically demanded, placing deliberate and special emphasis on the swear. “There’s no _censorship_ in bookclub. We’re all natural here – the way God intended it to be.”

“I highly doubt God is familiar with the concept of hosting a bookclub.” Blythe summarily dismissed. “I’m sure he had much more important things to do with his time.”

“You can’t possibly know that.” Imogen retorted. “You’ve never met the man.”

Quickly taking the bait, like Jethro expected she would, Blythe sat up a little bit straighter in the loveseat she shared with Alice and glared at her taller counterpart.

“With what book, Imogen?” Blythe impatiently demanded. “With what book?”

“The Bible, of course.” Imogen promptly declared. “Who _wouldn’t_ want an in-depth discussion of their own literature?”

“So what, Imogen,” Blythe snapped, “God and his angels just actively discuss Leviticus and Deuteronomy on a weekly basis? What the fuck would be left for them to even discuss after all these eons?”

“I don’t know.” Imogen shrugged. “Maybe some of the angels feel he lacked originality.”

“Sure.” Blythe sarcastically agreed, rolling her eyes. “You got me. Maybe the real reason Lucifer fell is because he criticized God’s writing style.”

“…We can’t rule it out.”

“Of course we can!” Blythe snapped. “What kind of – “

Thankfully, for the sake of all involved, particularly so Imogen, Alice chose at that very moment to finally intervene, seeming to have borne all she cared to of the argument at hand - which, considering the fact that she was fairly religious, wasn’t at all that surprising.

“Why don’t we stop blaspheming?” Alice curtly suggested, the recommendation more of a command. “This is _bookclub_ , I’ll remind you.”

And, even though the authoritative way in which Alice tended to direct others rankled him more than just a fair bit, on account of him subconsciously likening said behavior to that of his most loathed drill sergeants at boot camp, Gibbs was nonetheless glad for that little habit of hers on this particular occasion, as said edict had somehow almost managed to return everything to normal.

“Honestly, Jethro. Alice is right.” Kitty insisted, snatching up his hand once more. “Let’s just take a deep breath and move on with things, alright? Marietta was out of line, not _you_. Nobody is holding anything against you here.”

“Except maybe the fact that you only brought one loaf of that banana bread.” Imogen teased, only half-joking.

More than just a little familiar with those who had voracious appetites, considering that his child was _Tony_ of all people, a young man known all throughout the city as someone who could down an entire pizza to himself and still be hungry, Gibbs found that he could hardly snark on Imogen for her playful little criticism, if not only to avoid being a shameless hypocrite, then almost certainly because he didn’t think he could get away with calling her a ‘piggy’ in the same manner he could with Tony.

“It was a big loaf.” He asserted, instead.

“And I’m a big girl.” Imogen sallied, stretching out her long limbs to prove the point.

“You’re not – “

“Jethro, we _both_ know I could haul you up over my shoulder like a bag of potatoes.”

While Gibbs certainly didn’t have any doubts about _that_ , considering the fact that Imogen had more muscle mass than the vast majority of men he encountered on a daily basis, he couldn’t help but protest against the assumption nonetheless, his ego not allowing for a peaceful surrender when it came to questions about his masculinity.

“You’re still half an inch shorter than me.” He insisted. 

“Only when you’re wearing thick-soled boots.” Imogen immediately dismissed.

“That has absolutely nothing – “

“There’s an easy way to settle this.” Imogen interrupted, clumsily rolling herself off the ottoman. “Boots off.”

Despite the profound ridiculousness of it all, Gibbs founds himself complying nonetheless, not wishing to play the part of a curmudgeon over something so patently silly. And so, as such, he immediately slipped free of his boots and waited patiently for Imogen to follow suit.

“Alright,” The self-described Amazonian declared, once the tedious job of removing her triple-laced boots had been completed, “Back to back now.”

Deciding to continue to humor the excitable woman, Gibbs stood stock still and allowed for the muscular blonde to press up against his back, so confident was he that he would come out the victor.

“Hold up,” Blythe insisted, carefully stepping up unto the arm of the loveseat for a better vantage, “It’s looking pretty equal to me. Kitty, do you have a level on you?”

“I have a ruler, if that helps.” Kitty offered.

“Probably not, we need more accuracy than that.”

“You’re forgetting to account for hair, Dear.” Alice intervened. “Flatten down Imogen’s hair and Jethro wins by a quarter of an inch.”

But, even though Gibbs felt as if that was a perfectly fair judgement, and one given by a fairly unbiased arbitrator, the somewhat heated debate that immediately followed Alice’s declaration soon dissolved into some fairly dangerous territory, with the only thing preventing an annoyed Imogen from taking off for the nearest Walmart, in the middle of a downpour, being Kitty’s hasty retrieval of a series of paint-splattered rulers, the likes of which were _all_ used to better distinguish the winner of the height dispute. And while, admittedly, the majority of the four votes did go to him, with only Blythe ending up in Imogen’s corner, the general consensus that he was only a quarter of an inch taller than his challenger was ridiculous to him, as he felt rather strongly, like Alice, that hair accounted for at least half an inch of Imogen’s height. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was about to be a sore winner about things and ruin the evening.

“You had better watch yourself, Jethro.” Imogen teasingly warned. “There’s only room for _one_ Amazonian in this group.”

Even though Gibbs was fairly certain that the vast majority of people wouldn’t ascribe the ‘Amazonian’ title to a _man_ of only six feet, he could certainly see why a woman would be so covetous the rare distinguisher and, as such, graciously ceded the title to his new acquaintance.

“You can have it.” He diplomatically allowed, sinking back down into the papasan chair beside Kitty. “But, on more serious grounds, how many chapters of Moby Dick are we supposed to read before meeting up again?”

“Well, how many chapters are there?” Blythe questioned, looking to Imogen for answers.

But, when Imogen only shrugged in response, her mouth far too full of wine to properly answer, Alice took over and pulled out a silver-plated iPhone from the pocket of her skirt.

“There are 135 chapters in Moby Dick.” Alice clarified. “We’ll do fifteen a week.”

While fifteen was, admittedly, quite a lot of reading, especially so for somebody who worked overtime more often than not, he was willing to concede that it was perfectly possible to keep up the pace just so long as he stopped taking his routine depression naps right after work. And, in fact, were it not for the inescapable reality that Ducky would surely razz him for finally deigning to read the book he had been pressing on him for the last several years, Gibbs might have actually allowed himself to feel excited about the whole affair. 

“Well, now that it’s been _decided_ – “

“Spare me the sass, Imogen.” Alice curtly interrupted. “This group _needs_ somebody to take charge.”

“Well, why does it always have to be _you_?” Imogen questioned, arguing merely, for what Gibbs assumed, was only the pleasure of arguing itself.

But, if there was ever any precedent for Alice responding in a positive fashion to Imogen’s goading ways, she certainly showed no signs of such as she approached her friend’s half-hearted attack with a forceful energy far more appropriate for a presidential debate than a simple squabble amongst friends.

“It’s precisely my strong personality that keeps you and Blythe from murdering each other.” Alice proclaimed, speaking with all the confidence of a lifelong politician. “And we _all_ know that Kitty won’t speak her mind without a little tactful pressuring.”

“Jethro could always lead.” Imogen suggested, playing the part of Devil’s advocate just for the hell of it. “He was a Marine after all.”

“I’m in charge all day,” Gibbs intervened, “I don’t want to have to be in charge of things during my free time, too. Let’s just keep things the way they are, there’s no need to shake things up on my account.”

And Gibbs wasn’t just aiming to keep the peace, either, by allowing Alice to maintain control of their little bookclub. For Gibbs very genuinely did _not_ wish to be put in yet another position of authority outside of work, as he had but precious little time in his life to just be _himself_ – without the burden of all the stress and anxiety that usually accompanied him whilst in charge.

“It’s settled then.” Alice smiled, verging on the edge of smugness. “Now let’s get back to business, shall we?”

“Weren’t we just meeting to choose a new book?” Gibbs asked.

“Oh,” Blythe grimaced, looking suddenly guilty, “I forgot to tell you – bookclub night is also _Pick Me_ Night.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Gibbs admitted, sincerely hoping that he hadn’t gotten himself involved in anything weird. “Is that some sort of game I’ve never heard about?”

“No,” Blythe immediately corrected, looking almost insulted, “It’s the syndicated reality competition that _7.5 million_ people watch each year, Jethro.”

Despite having not had a show he religious watched since he was a young boy of ten, and fawning over The Lone Ranger every Saturday morning, much to the mild amusement of his paternal grandmother, who had always insisted that Tonto was somehow far more attractive than the lead actor himself, Gibbs understood full well the intensity some adults felt towards their shows – as Kate had once refused to speak Tony, off the clock, for a full three weeks after he had inadvertently spoiled an episode of Game of Thrones for her. And, given that knowledge, Gibbs wisely refrained from harping on the small blonde for her heated to his ignorance.

“I don’t really watch that much television.” Gibbs tried to peacefully exculpate.

“You do now.” Alice decided, turning on the television. “Blythe, do we have time for popcorn?”

“We only have two minutes before the show starts.” Blythe frowned. “So not really. Unless you’re volunteering to miss the first few minutes.”

Looking as if her girlfriend had just suggested that she ought to have missed out on her Bat Mitzvah, Alice scoffed, quite loudly, and looked expectantly around the room.

“I’ll go make the popcorn.” Gibbs offered, taking the hint.

“Oh no,” Kitty immediately resisted, “You’re a guest. _Stay_. I’ll go and make the popcorn.”

“No really, it’s fine.” Gibbs assured, carefully slipping out of the papasan chair. “I’m not even invested in the show. It makes more sense for me to go.”

“I’ll come with.” Kitty decided, settling for a self-sacrificing compromise. “Someone needs to show you where everything is.”

And, while Gibbs _could_ have insisted on being chivalrous, by arguing that his hostess stay behind while he tended to the making of the snacks, he refrained from doing so on the grounds that he was fairly certain Kitty was wanting to talk to him about something in the relative privacy of the kitchen, where the dangers of being overheard were slightly less probable with the addition of the microwave popcorn popping and Kitty’s soft voice.

“If you insist.” Gibbs allowed, holding out a gentlemanly hand to make her exit from the deep chair an easier one than his own.

“What a gentleman.” Kitty smiled, allowing the assist to take place.

“That chair can be treacherous.” Gibbs explained, blushing a bit as she grabbed his arm and steered him towards the kitchen.

Not because he actually felt any sort of romantic affection towards the woman in question, of course, but simply because he felt rather awkward at the prospect that somebody might actually believe he did.

“Believe me, I know.” Kitty agreed. “That’s why it’s my favorite. It gives me an excuse to stay where I am.”

“Maybe I need to pick me up one those.” Gibbs joked. “I might actually relax for once.”

“If you’re serious,” Kitty began, moving to open one of her cupboards, “I know where to get the prettiest cushions for one. And I also know where you can get the frame dirt cheap, too.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Gibbs agreed, accepting the bag of popcorn Kitty passed to him.

And then, heading towards what he presumed to be the microwave, a square box covered almost entirely in multi-colored sequins, Gibbs inserted the bag and hoped for the best as he jabbed his forefinger at what he presumed was the popcorn button.

“Thanks for the help, Jethro.” Kitty expressed, approaching him with a giant bowl made entirely of beautiful stained-glass.

“All I did was put a bag of popcorn in the microwave.” Gibbs asserted. “So why don’t you tell me why you _really_ wanted to get me alone.”

“There’s no getting one over on you, is there?” Kitty smiled ruefully, nervously fidgeting with the hem of her shirt as she gathered her courage. “I suppose I just wanted to apologize. I put you in an awful situation, by not warning you ahead of time about Marietta being – having a stronger personality. It wasn’t fair to let you get blindsided like that. I’m sorry.”

While Gibbs certainly appreciated the apology, especially so since it was so damnably earnest in nature, he felt strongly that it was entirely superfluous gesture, as he knew damn well that nobody as kind as his hostess would have ever purposely set him up for so uncomfortable an encounter as the one he had just experienced.

“You don’t need to apologize for the behavior of others.” Gibbs reprieved, looking Kitty straight in the eyes to prove that he was serious. “You’re responsible for you.”

“Maybe,” Kitty frowned, “But I still tend to think that a hostess ought to maintain a certain degree of responsibility over the behavior of her guests.”

“You couldn’t have possibly known that things would go that…unfortunately.” Gibbs exculpated. “If anything, _I’m_ the guilty party.”

“No, don’t say that!” Kitty immediately denied. “ _I’m_ the one at fault. Marietta has a habit of being…I should have anticipated her reaction. This isn’t the first time she’s behaved poorly.”

“Why don’t we both just agree to blame the rain?” Gibbs diplomatically suggested. “That way nobody has to feel bad.”

“What an elegant solution.” Kitty smiled. “I like the way you think.”


	9. Chapter 9

For what had to be the first time in nearly forty years, Gibbs slept peacefully, and soundly, well past seven, the sounds of his alarm, and Tony’s somewhat persistent attempts at rousing, somehow miraculously going unheeded as he slept the sleep of a child entirely unencumbered by the cold realities of adulthood. And, much to his great wonder, he hadn’t needed the aid of Ducky’s self-ascribed ‘comatose tea,’ or his uncle’s homemade moonshine, to achieve the feat, for his dreams, for once, had been pleasant ones, the peaceful manifestations of his mind no doubt bolstered, in part, by his tranquil evening with Kitty and the 27 chapters of an admittedly fascinated book he had gobbled down before calling it a night, chapter 11 of the famous novel, where the two main characters had shared a bed, being the particular highlight of his late-night book devouring. So finally peaceful, and restful, was he, Gibbs almost entertained the idea of calling into work, and sleeping his morning away, not wanting to waste and portion of his enjoying, non-depression, slumber for fear that he might never experience it again. It wasn’t until he heard his seldom-used doorbell ringing down below, and Tony arguing, pretty profusely with the early-morning caller, that Gibbs ripped himself away from the calm melodiousness of his half-conscious state and dragged himself out of bed, figuring that Senior, of maybe the Mormons, had returned to ruin their early morning peacefulness with just how angry his son was currently sounding. Fortunately, both such persons could be easily dealt with, if not with threats of physical violence for the former, then almost certainly with a forceful chewing out for the latter. He need not get himself worked up over something so trivial and easily managed. There was still plenty of time left in his day for the unfounded anxiety and misplaced anger to take hold, after all, and but little need to borrow the trouble that would inevitably come as his workday progressed.

“ – Can’t just barge in here like that!”

Gibbs had just been slipping out of his pajamas, and into his morning clothes, when the sounds of Tony’s outrage, and slight panic, made him increase his hustle and forgo his socks, even though it was patently dangerous to do so in a home so very full of aged, and subsequently slippery, floorboards. But, by God, if Tony was in any sort of trouble, or even marginal emotional distress, he was willing to run the risk of a broken ankle if it meant getting himself unto the scene quicker.

“What the hell is going on down there?!” Gibbs thundered, hurrying down the stairs as the sounds of the argument grew louder.

Having fully expected to encounter nothing more than a stereotypically drunken Senior trying to force a hug, or some other unwanted form of attention, onto Tony, or perhaps an intolerably forceful Mormon trying to indoctrinate his reluctant audience with skillful persuasion, Gibbs was woefully unprepared to handle the visage of two stony-faced Master at Arms standing on either side of his front door, and a dark-haired Naval officer arguing loudly with Tony – the vitriol with which they were now speaking to each other more than enough to make the MAR’s shift nervously and Gibbs see red. 

“Just what the hell is going on down here!?” Gibbs demanded, forcefully wedging himself between his child and the officer.

The inquiry was, in fact, a superfluous one, as Gibbs was all but certain of the reasoning behind this little announced visit of theirs. But, all the same, he figured it was only fair to give them a chance to explain themselves before he went all Papa-Bear on them and raised hell.

“I told them they couldn’t come in, Gibbs, but they just bulldozed past me like a pack of fucking rottweilers.” Tony griped, feeling quite free to run his mouth now that he was safe behind his father. “They’re lucky I didn’t force them out.”

Deciding, for once, to humor his child’s grandiose sense of fighting finesse, out of a rather genuine desire not to embarrass him in front of the small trio of assholes who had just so recently barged their way into his home, Gibbs refrained from checking his son’s ego and instead concentrated on getting him away from the scene – knowing, as he did, that things were very likely to get ugly and personal.

“Anthony,” Gibbs drawled, making good use of the man’s formal name to show that he was serious, “Get to The Yard, you’re in charge today.”

Because even though Gibbs was fairly certain that the impending interaction he was about to have with these interlopers wouldn’t last any longer than a few hours, at most, he knew more than enough about himself to understand that he really wouldn’t want to be heading into work directly afterwards – not if what he suspected was about to go down, went down.

“But – “

“You had best listen to you father, boy.” The stocky officer patronized. “This is none of your concern.”

And, knowing his child as well as any father did, Gibbs spoke up before Tony could say anything that would earn him a punch to the ear.

“Anthony,” Gibbs repeated, this time much firmer, “ _Go_. I’ll fill you in later.”

Despite looking as if he would much rather sit through yet another Ducky-approved documentary on eighteenth century beekeeping practices, or endure yet another hour-long lecture from Kate on the subject of ‘proper’ towel folding technique, Tony reluctantly, yet obediently, did as he was directed, his only real act of protest being to rudely shoulder-check the officer and MAR’s as he made his sullen exit.

“I hardly think those two are necessary.” Gibbs critiqued, jerking a thumb at the MARs.

“That remains to be seen.” The officer calmly returned, fixing Gibbs with a gimlet-eyed stare.

Having never been one to take kindly to threats, no matter _who_ they came from, Gibbs narrowed his eyes and fixed the officer with a tempered glare of his own.

“Why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me why you’re here?” Gibbs suggested, already at wits end with the taciturn officer. “We could have just as easily met at The Yard.”

And, even though Gibbs was fairly certain of the reasoning behind such a clandestine ambush on his private property, that being the tactical prevention of him securing counsel, the answer he received in response to his question still made his blood boil.

“I thought it best if we keep this little visit of ours private.”

While Gibbs understood, perfectly well, that the officer’s keen desire for privacy could either bode well or poorly for him, depending strictly on whether or not said isolation tactic was being used for intimidation purposes, or simply as a loophole to avoid meeting the standards of a formal interrogation, just the fact that he found himself alone with a commissioned officer was more than enough to make him wary.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to offer you a drink.” Gibbs quipped.

“I’m not sure I’d accept one from you, regardless.” The officer sallied. “You’ve caused us quite a lot of trouble.”

“I haven’t caused _shit_.” Gibbs heatedly refuted. “My conduct has been as unimpeachable as always.”

In fact, were anybody to ask him, Gibbs would go right ahead and proudly proclaim that his conduct had only improved over the last several months, as some pretty intensive therapy sessions had all but taken care of the majority of his anger management issues.

“That’s largely debatable.” The officer snarked. “Some would say your behavior has been deplorable – shameful, even.”

Feeling himself bristle at the suggestion that his behavior had, at any point in his life, been of a shameful nature, Gibbs scowled and prepared for battle even as he schooled his tongue into submission.

“Is that why you’ve come, for an apology?” Gibbs scoffed.

“An apology would certainly help your case.”

“My _case_?”

“Yes,” The officer confirmed, his scowl deepening, “You’ve made a great deal of powerful people very angry with all your grandstanding nonsense.”

It was precisely at that point, in their conversation, that Gibbs’s suspicions regarding the purpose of this unofficial visit were soundly confirmed, and his resultant paranoia justified – for the unpleasant officer standing before him had, in fact, just confessed to the fact that The Marines were, undeniably, out for his blood with the very clear goal of extracting vengeance on him for the crime of outing a fellow officer’s war crimes during a special missions they had collaborated on in Afghanistan a few years back.

“I’d hardly refer to what I’ve done as grandstanding.” Gibbs defended. “I was responsible for the citizens under my command, and I protected them as I had been directed to do.”

And, quite frankly, if that meant reporting a fellow officer’s inappropriate dalliances with a series of underaged citizens, an arrangement said pig had only brokered with empty promises of marriage and/or additional property for their families, so be it. Gibbs had taken an oath to serve and protect all those years ago, and he was damn well going to uphold his promise, even if he had been coerced at the time of its making.

“If what you reported was true, it doesn’t seem as if you protected them at all.” The unsmiling officer mocked.

Fortunately, for the sake of the antagonizing officer’s well-sculpted nose, Gibbs was able to refrain from responding to the shameless goading with violence. But only narrowly. As the very insinuation that he, himself, had somehow been at fault for half-a-dozen preteen girls being taken advantage of, just by virtue of being in the vicinity, was patently disgusting and inciting in nature.

“As soon I discovered what was happening, I reported it.” Gibbs defended. “As I had every responsibility, and right, to do.”

“You reported a fairly popular officer, without giving him a chance to explain himself first.”

“That officer was blatantly assaulting underaged citizens.” Gibbs retorted, feeling his fists curling into balls. “There was nothing that needed explaining. Assault is assault. There’s no mitigating or justifying it.”

If anything, the crimes of Bowers were unfortunately far _worse_ than they had been presented in the following hearings, as only one of the seven girls said officer had groomed had been above the age of fifteen, and only two out of the aforementioned seven willing to testify that everything had been entirely consensual and not, in any way, motivated out of the very real fear of a large man with a gun strapped to his back.

“I fear you’re being a little too gratuitous with your use of the word assault.” The uninvited officer dismissed. “It might interest you to know that another three of those girls have admitted to lying about the whole ordeal. The rest are sure to follow soon.”

“You seem awfully proud of the fact that an officer might get away with rape.” Gibbs accused.

“Now let’s not use such an unsavory word.” The officer admonished. “Bowers is accused of misappropriating military funds and fraternizing with underaged citizens, nothing more.”

“It’s an unsavory word for an unsavory act.” Gibbs sharply retorted. “Did you honestly come all this way just to gloat about a rapist getting off free?”

Had Gibbs still been a military grunt, and subject to the authority of officers, the dark look he promptly received in response for his mouthy retort would have told him that he was about to be gifted the great honor of starvation rations for the following six months.

“You should know that you’ve made a lot of important people even angrier with your latest of actions.” The officer warned. “So don’t go pissing off somebody that’s been trying to help you.”

Not even bothering to entertain the ridiculous assertion that his home intruder was really only trying to help him, Gibbs scoffed loudly before focusing on the more important portion of the officer’s thinly veiled threat.

“My latest actions?” Gibbs parroted, thoroughly confused.

Because unless he was woefully mistaken, which he most assuredly _wasn’t_ , there was no way in hell that The Marines could be angry with him for the things he did outside the scope of his service. And, having decided never again to serve his country, in any capacity, after experiencing the utter disaster that was his latest mission, Gibbs regarded his last two years of conduct as utterly irreproachable as far the military was concerned.

“Don’t play stupid.” The officer snapped, finally losing his composure. “Your little editorial has created quite the stir.”

For what had to be the very first time in his incredibly long life, Gibbs heartily wished he was entirely ignorant on a certain subject – as only then could he avoid outright lying by claiming not to know anything about the twenty-page editorial he had anonymously authored on the behest of an old military friend turned author. Because as much as he stood behind every last thing he had written regarding the subject of rampant psychological abuse being carried out on new enlistees, especially those of the black or homosexual persuasion, it went without saying that he didn’t feel quite so confident about his act now that he was no longer anonymous, as his short work only spelled out significant embarrassment for himself, as well as his parents, if its authorship was publicly outed.

“My name isn’t on that editorial.” Gibbs pointed out, remaining calm even though his blood had turned to ice.

“It doesn’t need to be.” The officer assured. “All those little details point directly to you.” 

“And if they are?” Gibbs challenged. “I’m allowed the right to free speech, having served or not.” 

“Just because you have that right doesn’t mean you should have used it.” The officer rebuked, his angry tone now laced with palpable disgust. “How smug are you going to feel about all your grandstanding when it costs you your reputation? Because enlisted or not, there are still ways to ruin the reputation of a Marine without a demotion or court martial.”

Although Gibbs already had a pretty strong inkling of just what the officer was hinting at, he found himself stirring the pot nonetheless, having never been one to back down from a challenge – even if it cost him his reputation in the end.

“Are you threatening me?” Gibbs challenged, struggling to keep his tone even.

“No, I’m _warning_ you – which is far more consideration than you gave Bowers.” The officer corrected. “Keep your writing to yourself, Shakespeare, and nobody learns about your degeneracy.”

Reminded, sharply, of the time he had been forced to listen to a lecture on the subject of debauchery from Mr. Wilson, his third-grade teacher, after he had been caught making flower crowns with the girls at recess, whilst the boys pounded each other into the mud in a senseless game to see who could come out the cleanest, and just how badly it had stung hearing the word people used for murderers and adulterers used on him, Gibbs sucked in a small breath and tried not to show just how soundly the officer had verbally thrashed him. Because this time, he avowed, there would be no tears as his moral shortcomings were listed by somebody in a position of authority over him.

“My degeneracy.” Gibbs repeated, the word still feeling like a blow even after all these years.

“That’s right.” The officer sneered, ugly and vicious. “Sure, you might be able to escape a blue charge, but the damage with be the same regardless. _Nobody_ likes a queer, not even if that queer’s a war hero.”

Now feeling thoroughly trapped, and as if he had no other options but to go for broke, Gibbs hastily opened his mouth and made to deny the ugly accusation that had plagued him since Kindergarten – his caveat about always telling the truth all but forgotten as he worked to prove his heterosexuality. 

“I’m not – “

“You’re already a queer, don’t turn yourself into a liar.” The officer interrupted, his sneer only increasing in intensity. “I’ve found a few copies of the poems you wrote back in high school, and some of your paintings, too.”

“Who gave you those?” Gibbs demanded, feeling completely betrayed.

“What does it matter?” The officer shrugged. “There’s nothing that can be done about it now, unless you’re gunning for revenge.”

“I’m not – “

“But if that’s the case, you had best add one of your Vietnam buddies to the list.” The officer gloated. “Because I’ve stumbled across a letter he wrote home to his mother detailing all the reasons why you’re one of the few ‘good’ queers serving with the Americans. And if that’s not enough to hammer home the point, I don’t know what is.”

Not even wanting to know the name of the person who had betrayed him so soundly, for fear that he might never be able to look at them in the same way ever again, Gibbs refrained from trying to coerce a name out the officer’s lips and instead focused on doing damage control.

“What,” Gibbs demanded, “Do you want to pay you off?”

“I don’t want your goddamn money.” The officer spat. “I want your _silence_.” And, taking but a brief moment to recollect himself, the extorter added, in a calmer tone: “If anyone comes around asking about Bowers, you’ll tell them that you’ve got nothing say.”

“You’re asking me to perjure myself?” Gibbs demanded, not quite believing his ears.

“Look, you can either be a perjurer or a faggot. The choice is yours.” The officer coldly shrugged. “Personally, I’d chose the former every time.”

And, with that little tidbit of horrible advice, the immoral officer had turned his heels and ordered the MAR’s to get their vehicle started – pausing only briefly in the doorway to land one last blow before taking off for good.

“I’ll never understand why you had to go and rock the boat like this.” He critiqued. “But you queers are always starting shit, aren’t you? Just like the female enlistees, nothing is ever good enough for you, is it? You ought to have just been glad things weren’t any _worse_ for you – just ask the niggers.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Ducky was quite literally elbows-deep in the stomach of a water-bloated corpse when his pseudo-son, Jimmy, waltzed his diabetes-ridden arse into the morgue a full fifteen minutes late with a sugar-laden Frappuccino and the mutually concerning news that _Jethro_ , of all people, had called him on his break and subsequently inquired, rather nicely, if he wouldn’t mind getting Ducky on the phone. Which, in itself, was already an alarming enough scenario, considering the fact that Jethro almost never substituted orders for requests whilst in the midst of a work-related matter – which was precisely what Ducky had presumed his old friend was calling about, up until the moment his faithful assistant had helpfully pressed the phone up to his ear and held it there, so that he might better speak to his friend without first having to remove his fingers from the fatty liver he had been working so ardently to subdue. For it had soon become apparent, in a manner very out-of-character for said Marine, that Jethro was in dire need of some sort of emotional support, although because of what cause he had outright refused to specify – insisting instead that Ducky take an unsanctioned second lunch break and come to his home to discuss the matter more privately amongst themselves, even though Ducky had argued fairly stridently that their privacy could just as easily be maintained with the relatively small amendment of him encapsulating himself inside of his office for the duration of such.

And so it was that Ducky had inevitably, and reluctantly, surrendered complete and total control of his rather fascinating autopsy of the heavily waterlogged Petty Officer Drewe, her impossibly engorged liver and thick adipocere all, his only caveat being that Jimmy take as detailed of notes as possible about the bloody human fingernail found beneath her tongue, a most intriguing clue, considering it wasn’t her own, and took his leave of the morgue to scrub off the violent stench of human decay and swamp water, something that took him far longer than usual given the excess of gases that had violently exploded out of Drewe upon first incision, and headed down to the canteen to snag a quick muffin before finally making his way into the parking garage and over to what Anthony had long ago affectionately dubbed as his ‘Woodstock Machine.’ For as much as Ducky was forever keen to lecture all the young adults in his life on the great importance of consuming a nutritious breakfast, particularly so the youngest, _Timothy_ , who seemed to be losing a dangerous amount of weight of late, he likewise understood that it would only be compassionate for him not to hesitate with his snack selection when Jethro was so clearly in need of his companionship – which he so very clearly was, if the earlier eeriness of his perfectly calm tone was anything to judge off of. And Ducky, without a doubt, felt most heartily that it was. Because the last time Jethro had been so alarmingly emotionless, directly following his very first experience with battle, and the carnage such skirmishes inevitably produced, Ducky had been forced to bribe a duo of American medics into holding Jethro against his will on some rather spurious claims of heat exhaustion, up until the his fears that the young man would shoot himself in the head, just as soon as everyone’s backs had turned, had reasonably subsided to a negligible degree. Ducky could only hope that similar measures wouldn’t again be necessary, not only for the sake of the poor individuals who would be tasked with keeping him institutionalized, but so too for the sake of his friend, whom he knew would not take such treatment lightly without the aid of fairly serious chemical restraints.

But again, all things considered, namely Jethro’s fairly persistent proclivity for responding to any number of things with outbursts of the dramatic variety, his younger friend’s sudden and total despair could very have just been the result of a former officer bumping into him at the canteen and addressing him with a few unsavory slurs, or perhaps the epitaph _Shakespeare_ , which Jethro loathed beyond all reason – neither of which potential outcomes ought to have been regarded as anything anywhere near as legitimately traumatizing as the horrors of Vietnam, at least not by anyone even remotely psychologically well, but very likely _were_ viewed as such by the painfully-closeted Jethro. But, even so, Ducky was fairly confident enough in his knowledge of the vast intricacies of Jethro, an expertise that had only been sharpened with time and frequent interaction, to presume that with a few words of meaningful reassurances, and perhaps a cup or two of peppermint tea, all would be well again in his friend’s world. Then they could both return to doing the work they loved, their brotherly relationship even better than it had been before.

And, if the somewhat surprisingly heavy traffic he encountered that early afternoon, en route to his friend’s home, made him somewhat resentful of his younger friend’s ill-timed theatrics, well, so be it, Ducky was more than magnanimous enough to hide the evidence of such as he let himself into his friend’s home, feeling strongly that such a considerate disguise of his slight annoyance was the only fair concession to be made when one considered that Jethro very often put up with his own annoying proclivity of getting unfathomably high and showing up on his doorstep in the middle of the night. Reciprocity was one of the utmost fundamentals for fostering a solid relationship with someone, after all, right next to trust and respect. And if Ducky couldn’t even muster up a marginal amount of patience for his friend’s dramatically inclined personality, something Jethro had been given no say about being born with, he very well couldn’t reasonably expect to have the privilege of his tolerance in return.

“Jethro,” Ducky called out, as he pushed his way into the kitchen without knocking, “I do so hope that you’re not sulking over something one of your former officers might have called you. Such behavior is quite beneath your dignity, I assure you. And it shan’t change anyone’s mind, for that matter. It’s best to just move onward in these types of situations, with your pride still intact.”

But upon immediately failing to locate his melodramatic friend in the location he usually took to whenever distressed, which was prostrate atop the overstuffed cushions of his living room sofa, beneath a large pile of heavy quilts, Ducky stopped short with his rehearsed speech and could have sworn his heart had stopped beating, if not just for a moment, before he quickly came to his senses and decided to investigate.

“Jethro,” Ducky called out, this time far more forcefully, “Where have you gone off to?”

The slight creaking of mattress bedsprings, emanating from upstairs, was his only answer, if, indeed, the act of turning over in bed had been deliberate in intention and not just a mere coincident that coincided with his inquiry – the very real potential of which just aggravated him to no end, as only seconds ago he had been legitimately fearful of the possibility of walking into a room to find his friend’s brains blown out on the walls and carpet.

“I’m coming in.” Ducky forewarned, only giving Jethro’s door one cursory knock before barging in. “And you had best not be cocooned in your blankets when I do.”

It was rather difficult, if not outright impossible, after all, to have an intelligible conversation when one’s audience was so thoroughly enmeshed beneath their coverings. Unfortunately, however, such a location was precisely where he found his young friend, with three of the four blankets he used to keep ‘warm’ at night piled up over his chin and one of the several fluffy pillows lining his bed pressed tightly over his face.

“For God’s sake, Jethro, what on Earth are you doing?” Ducky demanded, impatiently yanking the dangerous pillow away from his face. “Do you wish to asphyxiate yourself?”

Greatly disgruntled by the loss of his face-concealing pillow, Jethro scowled deeply up at the ceiling before quickly turning his back to Ducky, quite clearly attempting, and failing, to conceal his red-rimmed eyes before they could be discovered and inquired about.

“It felt comforting.” Jethro grumbled, yanking his many covering up over his face.

“Comforting.” Ducky repeated, seating himself at the foot of the bed.

“I think I might have had another panic attack.” Jethro willingly divulged. “Being buried helped.”

Although Jethro’s choice of coping methods wasn’t exactly congruent with those of somebody who frequently liked to proclaim themselves to be as tough as nails, such a shameless utilization of blankets certainly wasn’t outside the realm of therapist-approved coping mechanisms and, as such, Ducky decided to let the matter go without lecturing – even though he was vaguely certain that by being silent on the subject, he was somehow encouraging the depression naps Jethro so favored.

“I see.” Ducky replied, taking care to keep his tone neutral. “And what, pray tell, happened to bring this panic attack of yours about?”

And, even though the careful inquiry had somehow managed to make him sound like some sort of cliché sitcom psychologist, one who hadn’t really earned his degree, Ducky found himself helplessly focusing, instead, on the abhorrent feeling of dread that slowly beginning to pile itself up in the core of his stomach, as some unexplainable phenomenon, some sort of feeling he couldn’t quite explain, was telling him that Jethro’s distress was legitimately serious this time around, and not at all the result of something as simple as a former enlistee teasing him about his fondness for poetry in line at the canteen.

“You have to promise to keep whatever I tell you secret,” Jethro stipulated, all but confirming Ducky’s fears, “And not go whistleblowing the moment I’m done.”

Having always been a libertarian sort of individual, even as a small boy heavily confined by the stern strictures of boarding school, the minor irritations and resentments of which he had never truthfully forgotten, nor forgiven his mother for causing, just the very thought of cosigning himself to such stringent secrecy, without first knowing the reasoning behind such a tenet, made his skin crawl with goosebumps – especially so when he considered it was _Jethro_ , of all people, he was pledging his reserve to, an uncompromising sort of man who had, very frequently, throughout the duration of his long life, created a handful of the sorts of secrets that any other man would have been arrested for, or maybe even executed, in a certain number of the more southern states.

But, Ducky quickly faltered, if one could not oblige their younger brother when it came to requests for secrecy, could one even call themselves a good brother? For what greater aspect of true brotherhood was there, that was greater than the bond a certain degree of shared secrecy created? None, he would confidently wager. Because whilst he hadn’t had the great privilege of sharing a bedroom with the younger man in his youth, or even familial home, and experienced the late night conversations and conspiracies that came about whenever two children shared the same space, he _had_ spent more than enough time with Jethro, in the dangerous battlefields of Vietnam, and the years that had followed, talking, at length, with Jethro of their dreams and what they would do after the war, if they were lucky enough to survive. And if Ducky could secure a promise, even back then, from a terrified teenager, one who was practically still a baby when he had been conscripted, that he would not tell anyone of Ducky’s hope for a quiet life in the countryside, with only his mother to keep him company, alongside a small garden marijuana and tea plants, so that he might better forget the horrors of all he had seen, he could very well oblige Jethro with the same decency – so long as a few minor stipulations were allowed for.

“Provided that what you tell me doesn’t indicate that you’re in some sort of mortal peril, or legal trouble, I promise I shan’t do any whistleblowing.”

But, even though the terms Ducky had listed were fairly simple, and not at all onerous in nature, Jethro denied them as quickly as an innocent man waving a plea deal.

“Nevermind then.” He grumbled, burrowing even further beneath his blankets.

“Jethro,” Ducky sighed, willing to compromise, “Are you in mortal peril, or legal trouble?”

If the latter, Ducky was perfectly willing to assist his impulsive young friend with obtaining sound, and free, legal counsel via an old friend from university. If it were the former, however, Ducky highly doubted that he would be of much use, especially not it his impending knowledge of the potential crime ever made him subject to cross-examination – such a hypothetical situation being the precise reason he had made his earlier stipulations in the first damn place.

“Both, potentially.” Jethro reluctantly volunteered. “The Marines are gunning for me.”

Although it wasn’t exactly kind of him, or considerate, Ducky couldn’t help but feel a small degree of relief at his friend’s declaration, as he knew, from great experience, that Jethro almost _always_ responded to minor verbal challenges with a small degree of paranoia, believing, erroneously, that all threats of future violence were legitimate in nature and not at all the subdued attempts of a powerless bully looking to intimidate in the only fashion he knew how.

“Jethro, while I’m confident that certain members of that particular branch of military are still displeased with the great shame that came upon them after their crimes were brought into light, I’m positive that – “

“They just sent a high-ranking officer to my house to threaten me.” Jethro interrupted; his words rendered nearly unintelligible by the fabric covering his mouth.

“Threatened you?” Ducky repeated, feeling his blood begin to boil.

Because although Ducky would never dare inform Jethro of such, out of the very legitimate concern that his friend would only take such a confession as evidence he was being patronized, a certain degree of brotherly, not to mention homicidal, rage had risen within him at the new that his friend was being threatened. As even now, after all these years, Ducky still had great difficulty, at times, with separating the overcompensatingly-gruff Jethro he knew currently to the sensitive one he had known back in Vietnam, all wide-eyed and terrified and in very clear need of protection from someone who actually had his best interests at heart. And it wouldn’t exactly be the first, nor likely the last, time that Ducky had felt so distinctly protective over the man he viewed as a younger brother – which a certain, now-limping, Admiral could attest to. Because as much as Ducky was a pacifist at heart, certain beliefs just went out the window when it came to his family.

“Blackmailed.” Jethro begrudgingly corrected. “But the threat was pretty fucking implied, if you ask me.”

“Just tell me what happened, Jethro. In _detail_.” Ducky encouraged, desiring certain names in particular.

Not for purposes of seeking revenge, of course, but rather for narrative strength and coherency. Not at all for identification purposes, not at all.

“Someone sent this complete asshole of an officer to my home, Duck, at seven in the fucking morning, with a duo of roided-up MAR’s, to try and intimidate me into changing my narrative on Drewe, if anyone came asking. And when I refused, that jackass threatened to tell everyone that I was - That he thought I was gay.”

Knowing, full-well, that he would get absolutely nowhere with trying to convince Jethro that he was, in fact, a homosexual, and suffering from one of the worst cases of internalized homophobia he had ever seen, even accounting for some fairly stringent religious communities, Ducky humored the younger man and decided to play along with his delusions in order to keep the peace.

“Jethro, I don’t rightly believe that just anyone would be able to prove the presence of that which a person so heartily denies exists in the first place.”

In fact, without any intimate knowledge of Jethro’s fondness for the more stereotypically feminine things in life, the overtly masculine aura he put off whilst in public would be more than enough to fool most people at first glance – at least up until the point they got close enough to said man to realize he was grossly overcompensating for something. Hell, even _Tim_ , the newest member of their little work family, was starting to suspect the obvious, if the confused little frown he displayed at certain times, like when Jethro happened to flirt with a waiter without knowing, was anything to go off of.

“They have samples of the poetry I wrote back in high school, Duck.” Jethro admitted, sounding mortified beyond belief. “And a letter from someone I served with – detailing all the reasons I was one of the ‘good’ queers.”

So wounded and accusatory was Jethro’s tone as he spoke, that Ducky didn’t even need to inquiry as to whether or not his friend knew the identity of the author of such an epistle.

“Jethro,” He began, feeling quite ashamed of his earlier work, “I swear to you, I meant that letter to be complimentary in nature, not derogatory.”

And it was with the spirit of complete honesty that Ducky made his defense, having never been one to be a liar. For even though he had, indeed, made copious use of the word ‘queer’ throughout the lengthy narrative he had written home to his mother, for no other reason than it had been the accepted vernacular at the time, and had sought, at the time, to make light of what he had previously presumed to be Jethro’s failures of masculinity, in the hopes that his mother would somehow assist him with the task of discovering how best to keep the young man from inadvertently outing himself, all that he had done back then had been motived out out of a very real desire to protect a frightened child from being given an embarrassing, and oftentimes reputation and life ruining blue charge. Thankfully, however, for both their sakes, Jethro’s long several months in therapy had enabled him to realize that Ducky truly did mean every word he was saying, and wasn’t just trying to exculpate himself of his crimes. And, even though Ducky could still sense that Jethro was, in fact, still a bit wounded about the existence of the letter, he was mutually relieved to find that Jethro still trusted him enough to continue on with sharing his troubles with him.

“I don’t care about what you wrote.” Jethro fibbed, his tone belying the truth. “I care about being outed as something I’m not.”

Seeing as how there was absolutely no point in debating the matter of Jethro’s homosexuality right then, especially not now, when there was a bigger fish to be fried, Ducky pushed away all thought of staging an intervention for his friend and instead focused on the more important aspect of their conversation.

“Jethro, you cannot seriously be entertaining the idea of perjuring yourself.” Ducky admonished, nearly ashamed of the younger man.

“It’s better than being outed as something I’m not.” Jethro defended.

Not quite believing that somebody as honorable and upstanding as Jethro would even entertain the idea of perjuring himself about something so decidedly serious, Ducky found himself speaking a little more harshly than intended.

“You’d rather a rapist go free then allow people to believe you’re gay?” Ducky challenged, the question taking on a scolding edge. “Shame on you, Jethro. I’ve come to expect far better of you.”

But even though Ducky had quickly reassured himself that such sternness had certainly been warranted, given the great seriousness of their conversation, he couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of guilt as his friend recoiled physically from the harshness of his tone.

“I’m just scared, Duck.” Jethro confessed; his voice impossible small.

Ducky couldn’t help but be a little taken aback in response to that little admittance, his disappointed anger all but forgotten by the sheer magnitude of his friend admitting, for the first time since Vietnam, that he was actually afraid of something. Only this time, instead of being a sobbing wreck that refused to shoot at boys barely any older than himself, it was more of a refined panic he was experiencing, the type of fear that made him shutdown rather than fight back.

“Jethro,” Ducky frowned, placing a hand on the younger man’s knee, “While I might not be able to understand, on a personal level, just how uncomfortable being threatened with an unsanctioned outing truly is, I can absolutely guarantee that far more people would be upset with the idea of a veteran being blackmailed than they would be with a homosexual veteran. Times have changed Jethro, and for the better.”

“I just don’t want to embarrass my parents, Duck, or Tony.”

Fairly certain that Jethro was more concerned with embarrassing himself, above all else, Ducky frowned at his friend’s little snippet of dishonestly but otherwise played along, viewing moving along the conversation as more important than calling out an outright lie.

“Jethro, we both know that young Anthony practically worships you. And absolutely nothing about you could ever possible embarrass him.” Ducky debated. “And as for your parents, well, they’re some of the most progressive people I have ever met. And if someone from _that_ generation can befriend the only black gentleman in their small town, during the height _forties_ , without ever once wavering in their loyalty, then I think they can accept the fact their child is gay.”

“That’s different,” Jethro immediately argued, “LJ was _born_ black.”

“And science tells us that homosexuals are born homosexual.” Ducky calmly sallied.

“But they can choose not to be.” Jethro erroneously countered. “Black people can’t choose to get rid of their melanin.”

Refusing, point blank, to enter into an argument on the subject of the origins of homosexuality with someone so closeted as his friend, knowing that it would be to no avail, and would very likely only descend into an argument betwixt themselves, Ducky bit down hard on his tongue and took a deep breath before taking a much different approach with Jethro.

“Jethro, you cannot let a rapist walk free.” Ducky insisted. “No matter what the consequences of not doing so are.”

“I know.” Jethro sighed, sounding thoroughly defeated. “I just don’t want to be outed.”

“It may be that it doesn’t even come to that.” Ducky comforted. “So let us not go borrowing any trouble, yes?”


	11. Chapter 11

In way of upholding a fairly serious familial tradition, one that had been set in place for several years, Tony dutifully dragged his exhausted ass out of bed at eight that Saturday, despite the presence of a very beautiful woman nestled beneath the blankets he had just exited, and hastily brushed his hair, as well as his teeth, the former with his own volition and the latter with his girlfriend’s insistence, and hurried his exhausted ass over to his father’s house for their traditional biweekly pancake breakfast, a time-honored arrangement that had started only six months into their initial working relationship, when Gibbs, for reasons still highly unknown to him, had suddenly decided to make him his own.

“Sorry I’m late, Dad.” Tony called out, pushing his way into house without bothering to knock. “I had…I had a friend sleeping over.” 

And, even though Tony really didn’t feel all that comfortable with continually lying to his father about the fact that he and Kate had been in a relationship for a good four months now, five if you excluded their brief two-week breakup, which only _he_ did, he found himself unable to break with the charade he had worked so hard to create – not only because he knew that his father wouldn’t be happy, at all, with having been lied to for so long, but so too because he had promised the exceedingly private Kate that he would keep their relationship on the downlow until she was ready to be open with it.

“I do so hope that you’re making good use of prophylactics, Anthony.” Ducky lectured, not even bothering to look away from his newspaper as Tony entered the kitchen. “You seem to be enjoying the company of women rather frequently, after all, and I would hate for you to contract some sort of disease as a result of any potential carelessness. Take, for example, syphilis, which would – “

“ _Oh my God,”_ Tony groaned, feeling his face burn hot, “We are _not_ discussing my sex life during breakfast.”

Or any other meal, for that matter.

“I’m only looking out for you Anthony.” Ducky calmly defended. “I’ve seen just how badly diseases such as gonorrhea can ravage a man’s – “

“Ducky,” Gibbs sighed, pausing in his flipping of the bacon to lecture his friend, “I’ve given him the talk about being careful, believe me.”

Fortunately, for the sake of both father and son, Ducky seemed satisfied enough with that little tidbit of information to let the matter drop, returning his focus onto a rather lengthy editorial on the benefits of legalizing marijuana, nationwide, and forgoing the topic of sexually transmitted diseases altogether. Unfortunately for Ducky, however, Tony was not at all inclined to allow the embarrassment he had just been caused by said man to go unpunished – least of all when he took note of just how easily his revenge could be extracted as he sat in a chair directly opposite the older man and espied a suspicious mark on his neck.

“What’s that on your neck, Ducky?” Tony inquired, feigning innocence. “Looks like a bruise.”

This time, it was Ducky’s turn to blush.

“What on Earth are you going on about?!” Ducky spluttered, immediately yanking the collar of his shirt up over the incriminating mark. “What you’re seeing is nothing more than a liver spot, a natural consequence of ageing – “

But, not at all inclined to allow his friend off the hook so easily, particularly so after said man had just lectured his son on a fairly uncomfortable topic, Gibbs momentarily turned away from the stove to yank Ducky’s collar back down.

“Aren’t you a little too old to be allowing your girlfriend to use you as a chew toy?”

Despite being of the opinion that there ought to be no true age limitations to sex, or anything even tangibly related to such an act, as and Kate _both_ still enjoyed french kissing each other when a certain mood struck, much like a duo of horny eight-graders who had no other feasible way of calming the hormones surging through their developing bodies, Tony couldn’t help but giggle at his father’s choice of words. As it was beyond comical, at least by his standards, to imagine a man as formal as Ducky allowing himself to be used a chew toy.

“Aren’t _you_ getting a little too thin to still be vegetarian?” Ducky retorted, quirking an accusatory eyebrow at Gibbs. “A man needs his protein, Jethro.”

Knowing his father to be particularly sensitive whenever it came to discussions of his vegetarianism, as the existence of such a personality trait had often gotten him abused in bootcamp, and the grunt years that had followed, to the point where he had actually had raw meat shoved down his throat by officers, quite against his will, Tony stepped in and defended the man as best as he could.

“Dad’s faux-bacon is _way_ better than the real stuff.” Tony asserted, as equal parts honest as he was defensive.

But then, taking belated note of the way in which his father’s shirt seemed to be hanging just a little too loosely, Tony frowned behind his coffee mug and reluctantly conceded that Ducky was, perhaps, correct about Gibbs losing too much weight.

“But...You do seem a little thinner, Dad.” Tony quietly opined, cautiously approaching the topic of his father’s weight. “You aren’t getting sick, are you?”

Because as vapid and clueless as such a question inarguably made him sound, Tony felt as if he couldn’t relax until he had pinpointed the exact cause of his father’s sudden weight loss. For as much as he hated to even consider the possibility, and really, he did loathe it, almost above all else, it was unfortunately very likely that his father’s depression had resurged with a fiery vengeance, as mental illnesses were very wont to do. And Tony would be lying if he claimed that such a possibility didn’t worry him to no end. As he had thought, almost with a childish sort of hope, that Gibbs was finally getting better and healing from all those things he refused to talk about with anyone other than his therapist.

“Yeah,” Gibbs sighed, looking somewhat defeated, “It turns out you lose a lot of weight after you quit drinking.” And then, after a short pause, one that only lasted the length of a heartbeat, he added: “And getting switched to Wellbutrin didn’t really help all that much, either.”

“Wellbutrin is a fairly noted appetite suppressant.” Ducky calmly vouched, more for Tony’s sake than anyone else. “However, Jethro, if your lack of appetite persists for very much longer, I must insist that you speak with your physician about switching to a different antidepressant.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so.” Gibbs immediately argued, flipping a pancake more aggressively than necessary. “I’ve already gone through more than enough pills – I’m not switching again. If this one doesn’t work, it’s back to drinking for me.”

Even though it had been a solid eighteen whole months since Gibbs had stopped drinking hard liquor, completely, barring the brief setback said man experienced after picking up a rather inebriated Abby from a bar that had once been his favorite, Tony couldn’t help but scowl reproachfully at his father, as he didn’t much appreciate the casual way his father had teasingly suggested that he might start drinking again. Because if you asked _him_ , there was nothing even marginally funny about a grown man needing copious amounts of alcohol to sleep through the night.

“I’m afraid you’re the only person responsible for such an unfortunate cycle.” Ducky admonished, still quite sore about his friend’s initial abhorrence of medication. “Had you not repeatedly refused to take your medication at the slightest of provocations, you might very well have only need to switch once. As it is, you’re rather lucky your doctor has even continued to work with you. Most physicians would have referred you to another provider, for such noncompliance.”

“It’s not my fault Prozac gave me sleep paralysis.” Gibbs sullenly defended, plating up the food he had just cooked.

“No, it wasn’t.” Ducky agreed, finally setting aside his newspaper. “But I’m still rather dubious of the claims that all your other prescriptions were equally as faulty.” 

Thankfully much better at managing his emotions, particularly his anger, since starting therapy all those months ago, Gibbs only narrowed his eyes in response to the older man’s fussing, rather than opting to respond to such well-intended scolding with some over-the-top, and inappropriate, outburst like he would have only a year ago.

“Look, it’s been three weeks since I’ve been noncompliant.” Gibbs growled, turning his attention away from the stove to place platters of food on the kitchen table. “So, let it go. I don’t badger you about your marijuana addiction.”

“I’m a marijuana enthusiast,” Ducky corrected, “Not an addict.”

“That sounds like something an addict would say.” Gibbs dryly remarked, passing Tony the homemade syrup.

Experience having shown him that Ducky didn’t care, at all, for having his marijuana smoking habit called into question, by anyone, not even Jimmy, Tony quickly stepped in and changed the subject before a full-fledged squabble could erupt betwixt his dad and uncle-figure.

“Whatever happened with that officer yesterday?” Tony inquired, nabbing the fluffiest pancakes from the platter before Ducky could claim them for himself.

And, even though Tony had been concentrating on the monumentally important task of picking out the fattest slices of faux-bacon from the platter, so that he might not get stuck with the more crumblier selections, he did not fail to take note of the very clear anxiety that had flashed across his father’s face at the question.

“Dad?” Tony prompted, after a considerable silence had elapsed. “What happened?”

“A lot of powerful people are still angry about the Drewe situation.” Gibbs sighed, jabbing angrily at the only pancake on his plate. “That’s all.”

Understanding, from several slightly awkward conversations with Ducky, that the bulk of his father’s sudden depression lay almost chiefly within the fact that said man had only just realized, after almost half a lifetime of honorable military service, that an institution that relied primarily on instant obedience to function, and likewise insisted upon its members meeting an almost impossible standard when it came to regulating all those things about themselves that might potentially change how the public viewed the institution as a whole, wasn’t all that great and noble an institution for anyone involved – let alone those with exacting standards of morality.

“He didn’t threaten you, did he?” Tony badgered.

Because as much as he knew that he would be of but little assistance when it came to protecting his father against any hardened military personnel, at least when it came to the physical, he still wanted to offer whatever emotional support he could if that was truly the case.

“Don’t worry about it,” Gibbs insisted, looking almost exhausted, “I’ve taken care of it.”

“Are you sure?” Tony fussed.

“I’m positive.” Gibbs insisted, looking him straight in the eye. “Now hand me whatever is left of the syrup, will you? My pancake is thirsty.”

Seeing no real reason why Gibbs would ever lie to him about something so serious, as he had never done so before, Tony decided to let the uncomfortable subject of military harassment drop and passed his father the syrup as directed – feeling only slightly guilty that there was no only a quarter of the impossibly delicious liquid left.

“I will never understand why you insist upon only making four quarts of syrup a year, Jethro.” Ducky tutted, placing his portion of the faux bacon onto Tony’s plate. “The demands for such a confection grow higher every year.”

“I can’t force a tree to produce more syrup than it’s capable of producing.” Gibbs patiently explained. “And increased supply would only lower demand, anyways. Nobody appreciates the things they get too easily.”

“I’ll concede to your point of view on the latter,” Ducky magnanimously agreed, taking it upon himself to deposit another pancake onto Gibbs’s plate, “But not the former. Because I’m absolutely certain, that with a few hormonal treatments, your beloved tress could yield far greater amounts of syrup.”

“Just because it _can_ be done, doesn’t mean it should be.” Gibbs argued, poking apathetically at his second pancake. “Trees produce as much as nature intended them to produce. Just like animals grow as large as nature intends them to. I don’t understand why people feel the need to keep adding hormones to everything around them – especially things that can’t consent.”

While, at one point, Tony would have been on Ducky’s side in the debate, given that he rather enjoyed large servings of meat, he felt as if he could no longer side with the medical examiner on the subject of factory-farmed meat after Gibbs had taken him, upon request, to just such a place and outlined, in detail, just how horribly the animals confined to such a place were treated. In fact, the aftermath of such a little fieldtrip, if one could even call it that, had turned him completely off of a meat for a good three months.

“Good Lord, Jethro, are you seriously speaking up in defense of the trees now?” Ducky harangued, pushing a third pancake onto his friend’s plate.

“I’m speaking in defense of nature,” Gibbs argued, “As a whole.”

And, in a calculated bid to prevent his friend from pushing anymore food onto his plate, Gibbs lifted the platter of remaining pancakes and upended the fluffy mass onto Tony’s plate – only seconds before doing the same with the faux bacon.

“And yet _I’m_ the one labeled as a hippy.” Ducky tutted.

“You drive a goddamn hippy van.” Gibbs defended. “And you own your own greenhouse just for growing weed. If anyone is a hippy here, it’s you.”

“ _You_ speak for the trees!” Ducky reiterated, becoming a little more animated now that his marijuana-growing was being called into question. “Like some sort of Who from those absurd Dr. Seuss books you’re so fond of.”

“The Lorax,” Gibbs corrected, “You’re thinking of the Lorax, you uncultured swine.”

Enjoying the brotherly spat taking place in front of him _far_ too much to want to intervene and put a stop to it, Tony leaned back in his chair and nibbled contentedly on his faux bacon, working ardently to memorize every last bit of the heated conversation taking place in front of him so that he might better relate it back to Kate once they finally met up again.

“All the same, Jethro, I hardly think that trees are cognizant of what is happening to them. They’re fairly simple creatures, after all.”

“Then why do some plants grow better when they’re sang too?” Gibbs challenged.

“Any living thing can experience spontaneous reactions,” Ducky retorted, “Without understanding the mechanisms at play behind why such an experience is taking place.”

Clearly stumped, as the dictates of science were almost impossible to successfully argue against, Gibbs just scowled moodily at his friend.

“Just admit you hate nature.”

“I digress.” Ducky refused. “I love a great number of the plants that nature produces.”

“Because you’re a hippy.” Gibbs insisted.

“And you’re a tree-hugger.” Ducky calmly sallied. “Of the Sierra Club sort.”

Buying himself some time to come up with a clever quip, Gibbs pushed back his chair and moved to the counter to refill his mug with coffee, doing so at a far slower pace than he normally would when it came to anything related to coffee.

“If I didn’t treat my trees so well, you wouldn’t have any syrup to enjoy.” Gibbs argued.

“A tree will still produce, Jethro, even if you’re ‘mean’ to it.”

“Maybe,” Gibbs allowed, “But not as much as it could.”

“Ah, but that is where the hormones come in.” Ducky smirked.

Assuming, from his vast experience in dealing with the quarrels of his father and uncle, that a rehashing of the whole ‘hormones’ arguments would result in a full-fledged argument were it allowed to be discussed again, Tony cut the older men’s argument short the best way he knew how – by bringing up a more interesting topic.

“Why are we arguing about trees when Ducky is planning to propose to Penelope soon?”

It was only as the last word left his lips, that Tony remembered he really ought to have no real way of knowing such a fact – at least not without Kate’s intervention. As, apart from Jimmy, it was presumed that she was the only other one who knew of such an affair.

“How on Earth did – “

“You’re finally going to propose to Penelope?” Gibbs demanded, thankfully interrupting Ducky’s interrogation of Tony.

“Well, yes.” Ducky confessed, his initial confusion replaced with joy. “Caitlyn is planning to help me pick out an engagement ring this afternoon. But how on Earth did you know of such a thing, Ant – “

“It’s about time you proposed.” Gibbs razzed. “It’s been over a year.”

“Fifteen months isn’t really all that long of a time.” Ducky patiently digressed. “But, as much as I’d love to stay and argue the matter with you, I had best be off. I promised Caitlyn lunch in return for the favor of helping me chose a ring.”

And, with that, Ducky took his leave, thankfully forgetting to interrogate Tony in his great haste to scarf down the remnants of his breakfast before taking off to collect a notoriously impatient Kate for an afternoon of ring shopping.

“I hope Penelope says yes when he proposes.” Tony remarked, stealing a sip of his father’s coffee. “Last time he got dumped he gained thirty pounds and stopped showering.”

And, if there was anything worse than a hippy, it was a _smelly_ hippy.

“That beard he grew wasn’t all that great either.” Gibbs agreed. “But I know Penelope is going to say yes.”

“ _How_ could you possibly know that?” Tony demanded.

“Because she told me to start nudging him in that direction two months ago.” Gibbs grinned.


	12. Chapter 12

Gibbs was just finishing up with the rather important task of tidying up his kitchen, something he had always been rather particular about, after an early childhood spent trying his hardest to keep his immune-compromised mother from catching even the slightest hint of a virus, when a sudden, and almost violent, inspiration to draw struck him in the form of a muse disguised as the rather pretty visage situated directly outside his kitchen window – in particular, the beautiful apple tree that was just beginning to bloom, a veritable gift of nature that Gibbs was _never_ going to subject to hormones, least of all when it did so very well on its own.

Unfortunately for the sake of Gibbs’s newfound muse, however, just as soon as he had seated himself down at the kitchen table, and scrawled out his first legitimate, non-scribbled, piece of artwork for the first time in what had to be ages, he soon found that the completed sketch, done up in nothing but simple black ink pen, just didn’t do justice to the image he had painted in his mind. And even though Tony had informed him, on his harried way out the door, to meet with the mysterious girlfriend he had yet to introduce to Gibbs, that his simple imitation was some of his best artwork yet, and leagues better than his usual napkin noodles, it still needled Gibbs greatly to see such an astounding lack of color on the artwork he had just so deliberately created. And while he could have, theoretically, made reasonably good use of the random four crayons he had discovered tucked away in the chaos of his junk drawer, their origins of an unknown specificity, just the very thought of using said restaurant-brand crayons on his artwork had offended him more than he could ever possibly tolerate. And thus began the monumental chore of digging through every last receptacle in his home in search of anything even slightly more acceptable than cheap crayons, only for Gibbs to wind up discovering nothing more than a dried-out silver sharpie, wedged beneath a cushion of the sofa, with only 37 cents to keep it company, and a broken black fountain pen he couldn’t even remember buying hidden atop of the refrigerator beneath a short stack of take-out menus.

Which left Gibbs with the rater monumental question of just _when_ he had become so damn depressed, as well as so hopelessly apathetic, that he had stopped bothering to purchase any of those things that had once appeals to the more artistic side of him. Because, _sure_ , whilst he did, at one point in time, have the whole ‘boat-building’ thing to keep him busy when not at work, and otherwise free from the rather intensive feelings of loneliness that accompanied such solitude, said ‘hobby’ had long since been discontinued on the advice of his therapist, who had suggested, rather bluntly, that he had only ever been using that chore as a tool of avoidance. And while he _could_ , theoretically, have still made use of the woodworking station he had decided to keep, on the grounds that it would have been almost impossible to disassemble such an extensive workshop, and done some sort of sculptural work to pass the time, wood really wasn’t the sort of medium he was looking to work with right then.

And so, with nothing left to do but wallow in the vast despair of not having anything with which to carry out his former favorite hobby with, Gibbs began to carefully sweep his kitchen floor, paying particular attention to the area Tony had only just sat at for breakfast an hour ago, and pondered his next course of action.

Of course, there was always the local Walmart, stationed only a few short miles away. Surely _they_ were bound to have something in the way of art supplies. Only Gibbs didn’t much care for the way that such a corporation treated their employees like shit, nor for the way that his truck always, inevitably, ended up getting dinged in the parking lot of such a place. Not only that, but Gibbs highly doubted they would have the sort of quality art supplies he was looking for in the first place. And while there was, without a doubt, a Hobby Lobby located somewhere relatively nearby, based off of sheer statistics alone, Gibbs didn’t much fancy the idea of dishing out his money to a corporation even more hateful than Walmart.

But where else was there to go for art supplies? The only other art supply places he could think of were all the way back in Slaton, a medium-sized city located somewhere between Stillwater and Pittsburgh. And there was just no way in hell that Gibbs was going to travel a good eight hours just to get the art supplies he already knew he ought to be able to get just a little closer to home.

But thinking on the problem for just a moment longer, Gibbs could only conclude that Kitty was the one he ought to ask for answers, as surely someone as artistic as herself had to know where to get the best supplies. For though she seemed like the type who would be wont to make her own paints, either from the earth or the plants that filled her garden, there was just no way in hell that she would have been able to manifest even half the colors she had used on her walls just from nature alone. But were they really on friendly enough terms for him to just call her up with a random question?

_‘Don’t be so goddamn stupid,’_ Gibbs chastised himself, picking up the landline, _‘You’re only asking her a simple question. Kitty can’t possibly hold that against you.’_

“Jethro,” A sugary-sweet voice sang out, after only two rings, “How are you?!”

“Good. I’m good.” Jethro answered, beyond relieved that Kitty seemed so genuinely pleased to hear from him. “I was just drawing, actually.”

“That’s great, Jethro!” Kitty exclaimed, her excitement practically palpable. “I’m so happy to hear that!”

Even though Kitty was acting as if he had just confessed to beating cancer, her genuine pleasure in response to his news wasn’t of a condescending nature. And, as such, Gibbs couldn’t help but allow himself to feel a little excited about the sudden return of his muse as well. Because if a person as well-adjusted as Kitty felt as if that was something worthy of celebrating, well, maybe it was.

“Thanks.” Gibbs answered, feeling himself smile. “But I’ve sort of run into a problem. I wanted to paint my drawing, now that it’s done, but I don’t have any paint. Or brushes, even. And I guess I was just wondering, where do you get yours?”

“Oh, I go to Ingrid’s.” Kitty explained. “It has everything you could ever possibly need! You’ll just love it, Jethro.”

Thinking that it was a rather good thing that he was about go and visit a place was claimed to have everything he could ever possibly need, given that he was going to need to stock up on a great deal of supplies if he hoped to properly rekindle his passion for painting again, in particular paints of every last color imaginable, Gibbs found his smile increasing to ridiculous proportions. 

“You know, I was actually planning to head over there today.” Kitty volunteered. “Why don’t I just swing by and pick you up? Say in an hour?”

“That sounds great, Kitty.” Gibbs agreed. “But isn’t your Prius a little…compact?”

Because as much as Gibbs was genuinely excited about the idea of spending some time with a person whose company he greatly enjoyed, he didn’t much fancy the idea of spending any amount of time in a vehicle so cramped, as his sore knee would surely soon be suffering as a result of such a decision.

“Oh, never mind that.” Kitty quickly reassured. “I’m borrowing Teddy’s truck today. You’ll have plenty of leg room.”

“Perfect.” Gibbs replied, thoroughly relieved. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”

“Bye!” Kitty hummed out in reply, seconds before hanging up.

And, even though the afternoon he had just planned out with his acquaintance was of a fairly basic nature, Gibbs couldn’t help but smile as he returned his phone to its base on the kitchen wall. Because even though he knew himself to be rather shoddy in the area of making friends, something he had been slowly trying to work on, Gibbs was starting to think that Kitty might be more than just a little willing to assist in the reaching of such a goal. And just that thought, alone, was enough to excite him greatly. For as much as he got along with Blythe and Immy, seemingly very well, and had even crafted some form of comradery with Alice, he and Kitty had just ‘clicked’ almost instantaneously. And, as such, he valued her potential friendship far more than any of the other ladies’ potential friendships.

But, careful not to appear _too_ eager about his impending outing, less he run the risk of creeping Kitty out, Gibbs refrained from gussying him up and instead settled for just taking a quick shower to wash away any remnants of pancake batter from his skin. And, if he spent just a little more time than usual in making sure that the hair he was finally allowing to grow out, just a little bit, laid flat, well, so be it. Nobody liked a slob, not even people as kind and soft-hearted as Kitty.

He was only just shrugging into his sweater, a well-worn crew neck Tony had gifted him several years ago, when his cellphone buzzed and alerted him to the fact that he had received a text in the short half hour he had been in the shower. And, even though he was vaguely certain that it would be Ducky texting him, with harried demands that he settle a dispute betwixt himself and Kate on the subject of ring selection, Gibbs hastily dried his hands on a towel, nonetheless, and opened his phone to respond, not wishing to be rude to his oldest of friends.

_‘You’re good if we stop for coffee, right?’_

Feeling slightly guilty at the vast amount of relief he felt in finding that his texter was Kitty, and not the medical examiner he had spent more than half his life knowing, Gibbs grimaced but quickly pushed those negative feelings away, figuring that if nobody had been around to witness his disappointment, and then subsequent relief, that nobodies feelings could have possibly gotten hurt as a result.

_‘I will never not want to stop for coffee.’_ Gibbs assured, still a clumsy texter. 

_‘I knew we were meant to be friend.’_ Kitty quickly responded. _‘See you in a bit.’_

Despite being even more excited than he had been when first receiving the invitation to spend some time with Kitty, now that coffee had been added into the equation, Gibbs decided not to return his fellow artist’s text, on the grounds that he didn’t wish to encourage her to text and drive if, indeed, she was already on her way over to his house.

Instead, Gibbs simply slipped his cellphone back into the pocket of his jeans and headed back downstairs, intending to finish up with the reading of his newspaper now that Ducky was no longer bogarting all the interesting sections of such a periodical. He only hoped that his aging friend hadn’t managed to spill any chamomile tea on the pages this morning, as the last time such a travesty had taken place, Gibbs had been forced to take a hairdryer to the pages until he could pry them apart. Which had left him with the rather vexing experience of trying to read a series of articles with only half the letters in each sentence being legible. But, to be perfectly fair, Gibbs really hadn’t ought to have given his older friend so heavy a mug in the first place. At least not without giving him any warning first.

Fortunately, however, the pages of his newspaper were still perfectly intact, barring a slight crumpling where Ducky had held the pages a little too tightly, and Gibbs was able to enjoy reading up on world politics for a good twenty minutes before a slight knock sounded at his front door and alerted him to the fact that Kitty had just arrived – a good, and polite, ten minutes early. But, before Gibbs could so much as even rise from his seat, much less make his way into the living room to answer the door, the sounds of one last knock filtered into his kitchen, the likes of which was soon followed by the sounds of said door being pushed open with a flourish and a dainty sneeze.

“Jethro,” Kitty needlessly called out, “I’m here!”

“So I see.” Gibbs greeted, meeting her halfway to accept the hug she proffered.

And though it was certainly a strange sensation, for him to be greeting anyone other than his parents, or Tony, with a hug, it was a nice sensation nonetheless, as Gibbs had always been a tactile sort of person growing up – before bootcamp had psychologically crushed such a girlish trait out of him.

“I hope you don’t mind that I just waltzed in.” Kitty blushed, looking bashful as she gingerly extracted herself from the embrace. “I’m afraid that Alice and Blythe have gotten me into that terrible habit.”

“I leave my doors unlocked for a reason.” Gibbs reassured. “And you’re far from the worst person to have ever walked in unannounced.”

Senior, it would seem, was still the unlucky recipient of _that_ particular honor. Not that the reward said pig had received in direct response, a broken nose and two black eyes, had ever encouraged him to repeat such foolishness.

“Good.” Kitty smiled, her dark hair partially littered with glittered. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Gibbs agreed, struggling not to sound too excited. “Just as long as you are.”

“Jethro,” Kitty said, semi-serious as she grabbed his hand, “I’m _always_ ready for a good art haul. _Always_.”

As it turned out, much to Gibbs’s great surprise, the truck that Kitty had decided to borrow for that afternoon was more of a monstrosity than a legitimate vehicle, the red full-sized Tundra dwarfing his own large truck in comparison as it loomed menacingly in the driveway, it’s body raised an ungodly eight inches away from the ground and it’s red paint gleaming with all the pride of a vehicle that knew it was well-loved, even if it _was_ a bit gaudy and monstrous.

“Jethro,” Kitty grinned, speaking like a gameshow hostess, “Meet Circe.”

Not really knowing how he ought to respond to such an introduction, and likewise not wishing to appear rude, even to an inanimate object, Gibbs simply smiled politely before gently patting one of the vehicle’s sideview mirrors.

“It’s nice to meet you Circe.” He greeted. “Please, don’t eat me.”

“Don’t worry, Jethro.” Kitty laughed. “She only eats tailgaters.”

“So, she’s a merciful deity, then.” Gibbs stated, climbing in through the passenger side door.

“As merciful as she can be.” Kitty agreed, climbing her own way into the truck with a series of well-practiced moves. “Which is surprisingly a lot, for a lady her size.”

Feeling comfortable enough with Kitty to actually start behaving a little more like himself, something he rarely ever did around people, save for his immediate family, and Ducky, Gibbs smiled and decided it was safe enough to crack a joke.

“There’s no need to fat shame her, Kitty.” Gibbs teased. “I think you’re both pretty.”

“But which one of us is prettier, Jethro?” Kitty grinned, poking him in the ribs.

“Well, _me_ , obviously.” Jethro scoffed, rolling his eyes.

And whilst Gibbs had been expecting a certain amount of laughter from his new friend in response to his little joke, or at the very least a polite chuckle, the outright hyena howl he received, instead, very nearly had him reaching for his phone to call for an ambulance, as he had been all but certain, at first, that Kitty was having some sort of stroke. It was only when he realized, belatedly, by dint of the tears rolling down her cheeks, and likewise the little twinkle in her eyes, that she was actually _laughing_ , that he allowed himself to relax, and joined in with her, his initial mirth only increasing in intensity as the absurdness of Kitty’s laughter fill the truck and serenaded them both with the sounds he hadn’t even known it was possible for a human to make. And God help him, it just felt so damn good for him laugh like that – so hard that his sides were splitting from the effort of it all and his eyes streaming with salty tears. Because, unless Gibbs was mistaken, he hadn’t laughed that hard since he was an immature boy of ten, watching in horror, and slight awe, as his uncle Jack literally farted a giant hole through the back of his jeans just to prove to his other uncle, LJ, that such a thing was, in fact, perfectly possible. Because as much as he had been trying to prove to his parents, at the time, that he was perfectly mature enough to have custody of his slingshot returned to him, after he had gotten it confiscated for using it to peg Forest Farnsworth right in the eye, after he had shoved Flossy Parker down into the mud for rejecting his Valentine card, there had just been something about watching the usually silent LJ laugh so hard that he puked, from both the effort of his laugh and the smell that Jack had created, that had been funny as hell – no matter _how_ annoyed his mother and aunt had been about the whole affair.

“Jethro,” Kitty cried, purple mascara streaks now gracing her cheeks, “I’m so sorry you had to hear that.”

“Don’t be.” Gibbs insisted, struggling to catch his breath. “I haven’t laughed like that in ages. If felt good. _Really_ good.”

“I’ll be sure to make you laugh more often, then.” Kitty promised, finally pulling away from the stop sign she had anchored them at as they laughed. “Life is too short to take so seriously.”

And, with that, they were off again, heading vaguely west in dire need of some decent coffee before they undertook the monumental task of shopping for canvases and paints.

“Do you mind if we stop at Netherfield’s for coffee?” Kitty asked, somehow managing to steer her monster of a vehicle between two similar-sized SUVs. “I’m feeling a bit snackish and they have the best sandwiches.”

“Sure.” Gibbs agreed.

“Great.” Kitty smiled, making a hairpin turn without breaking a sweat. “You’ll absolutely love it there. I just know it.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Gibbs allowed, more willing to try new things now that he had Kitty at his side.

Much to Gibbs’s great relief, their little journey to Netherfield took them right into the heart of the city, making it much easier for him to relax. For so long as he was safely ensconced within the walls of the massive city, away from the prying eyes of those who knew him fairly well, he’d be perfectly anonymous and not at all targeted for his visitation to an art supply store – which, as he understood it, would still be considered to be a fairly feminine pursuit, even by today’s standards. Even _if_ , in theory, the vast majority of famous artists had been male – and straight ones at that.

“Here we are, Jethro!” Kitty sang, piloting her truck onto a service road.

Seeing as how the road they had just pulled onto was almost entirely comprised of gravel, and that of a dusty variety, Gibbs struggled to see anything other than slate-colored dust for a solid three minutes. But, when he finally did catch a glimpse of what lay ahead, his patience was well-rewarded, for there, ahead of him, located on a good stretch of private, untouched land, stood an adorable fairytale-esque building, with brick façade and a wondrous series of half-moon shaped windows overlooking all the wild greenery.

“It’s like something straight out of Disney.” Gibbs breathed.

“It’s even better in the gardens.” Kitty grinned, expertly wedging her truck between two shoddily parked SUV’s. “C’mon.”

And with a haste and agility that was more befitting of a cat than it was a human, Kitty slipped out of the giant truck and banged its hood in a nonverbal quest to get him to move just a little quicker than he was currently going at the moment.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Gibbs reassured, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to appease the impatient woman. “Hold your horses.”

“Oh no, Jethro.” Kitty smiled, linking their arms together. “My horses will _never_ be confined. They are far too unruly for such manhandling.”

“Yeah,” Gibbs conceded, with a playful smile, “I can see that.”

The free-spiritedness of Kitty’s character thus established, and confirmed, the two of them exchanged happy smiles and advanced upon Netherfield, their spirits light and their footfalls eager.

“After you.” Gibbs politely insisted, pulling open the wooden front door.

“What a gentleman.” Kitty crooned, pecking him on the chin before ducking inside.

If Gibbs had though the exterior of the building was absolutely gorgeous, which it was, the interior of such positively blew his expectations right out of the water. For it seemed, at least to him, that he had just walked into some sort of Disney-inspired fairy-haven – what with the whimsicality of the whole entire place.

“You were right.” Gibbs informed Kitty, as they approached the tulip-shaped hostess stand. “I _do_ love this place.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Kitty grinned. “Just wait until we get outside.”

As it soon turned out, Kitty was absolutely correct, for almost the very second they stepped through the beautiful french doors barring access to the grounds of the restaurant, his breathed stopped and his steps faltered – as Gibbs had never before expected, in all his life, to be put in a position where he could eat amongst a practical flood of pink and red roses.

“This is great, Kitty, just great.” Gibbs breathed, admiring the way the tables had been crafted into the shape of a rose. “Just great.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Kitty grinned, leading them over to a table that sat directly in the sunlight. “But I’m sorry it took you until now to experience it.”

“Don’t be so somber.” Gibbs gently admonished. “We’re in a _garden_ for God’s sake.”

And, even though Gibbs could tell that Kitty was rather reluctant to let the subject of his persistent self-denial drop, he was glad to find that she did so nonetheless, the proximity of their waiter all but forbidding the discussion of anything that didn’t involve tea sandwiches or their accompanying tea. 

“It really is beautiful back here.” Gibbs insisted, once the waiter had gone to fetch their refreshments.

“That’s why I love it so much.” Kitty agreed, tactfully accepting the change in subject without voicing any protest. “It’s nice to be amongst beautiful things, it keeps your spirits up.”

Thinking, to himself, of course, that Kitty was inarguably correct on that score, given that he had very much enjoyed decorating his childhood bedroom with florals and lace, the scorn of the neighborhood boys be damned, Gibbs nodded and silently resolved to frequent Netherfield’s more often – thinking, as he did so, that his spirits were already beginning to rise with just the measly ten minutes he had been on the property.

“We ought to make this a monthly thing.” Kitty opined, as their waiter returned to their table with their refreshments. “Just you and me.”

“It would be nice.” Gibbs ceded, waiting patiently until their waiter had gone to finish speaking. “I haven’t had a proper tea party since I was nine.”

For despite all indications of the opposite being true, the overall pleasantness of his ninth birthday had been promptly overshadowed by his mother’s sudden, and unprovoked, declaration that he was far too clumsy and immature to be given full possession of his grandmother’s tea set, even though, up until then, Gibbs had not so much as chipped one of the plates belonging to such a coveted set in any of the previous years. And while, at the time, the thoughts of having been warrantlessly prevented from having his birthday cake served to him on the plates of such a set, per usual, had been what troubled his little heart the most, it had been the terse exchange he had overheard, via the vent in his bedroom, betwixt his mother and grandmother, that had ruined his last single-digit birthday completely – as it had become perfectly clear, right then, as his normally patient grandmother had angrily berated his mother for being so determined to ‘toughen’ him up, that Gibbs had something _wrong_ with him, something that his mother was determined to fix. And for a fairly sheltered boy of nine, who had grown up under the unconditional love of several adults, that had been a fairly world-altering realization – as it was never easy, no matter how old one was when realizing it, to recognize that sometimes love _could_ be a little conditional, even when it involved the woman who had given you birth and sworn to love you for forever and a day.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper tea party.” Kitty confided, sipping delicately at her steaming peppermint tea. “I never had any friends when I was a little, and Imogen would always break my cups when I managed to rope her in – and then Grandma would get mad at us for making a mess in the garden and call our moms to pick us up.”

Not at all surprised to discover that Kitty and Imogen were cousins, even _with_ their very obvious differences in height, given the particular familiarity they had shown towards each other, and the way the features of their faces were similarly spread out, Gibbs made no request for additional information on the subject of their shared blood and instead asked, what he felt, was a more pertinent question.

“ _Imogen_ used to have tea parties with you?”

“Well, not willingly.” Kitty confessed, blushing a bit. “I had to bribe her with a lot of candy before she would even consider the idea. She’d have much rather spent her time with the neighbor boys, trying to knock down hornet nests with baseballs.”

“I guess I was lucky then.” Gibbs reflect. “My grandmother and aunt were always willing to play along with me. Sometimes my uncles would get in on it, too, if it wasn’t football season.”

“What about your friends, Jethro, did they ever play along?” Kitty inquired.

“I…I didn’t really have a lot of friends.” Gibbs admitted, feeling his face flame a bit.

Because even though Kitty had just confessed to not having a lot of friends, either, when she was growing up, Gibbs just didn’t have the same levels of self-esteem that she did.

“It’s a shame we didn’t grow up in the same town, then.” Kitty commiserated, laying a hand atop of his own. “We could have had all the tea parties we wanted.”

And, that said, Kitty beamed brightly at him and raised her teacup.

“Cheers,” She insisted, “To the first tea party either one of us has ever completely enjoyed.”

“Sure,” Gibbs smiled, playing it cool, “Cheers.”


	13. Chapter 13

After suffering through a somewhat terse and lengthy debate on the subject of just _whom_ would be picking up the tab for their impromptu little luncheon, a mild squabble that had only been resolved by the flipping of a coin, a compromise that Gibbs had shamelessly rigged towards his favor, with some sleight-of-hand bullshit he had learned from Ducky back in the day, Gibbs and Kitty were finally on their way to the largest mall in the city, _The Larkin_ , with two enormous to-go containers of boiling peppermint tea resting in the fairly unstable cup holders and the topnotch radio blasting out the melodious music of the unrivalled Dolly Parton.

“I’ll never understand all the hype about Madonna when Dolly exists.” Kitty pontificated, evidently almost as big of a fan of the latter as Gibbs.

“Some people are just born without taste.” Gibbs philosophized, feeling secure enough in his newfound friendship with Kitty to speak freely of his love for Dolly.

Not only because Kitty, herself, had voluntarily given voice to the fact that she viewed Dolly to be an artist above all others, something Gibb’s most heartily agreed with, but so too because he just knew, almost instinctively, that even if Kitty _hadn’t_ been in agreement with him on the whole Dolly Parton thing, which most people weren’t, that she still wouldn’t have harassed him for his own mild obsession.

“Poor bastards.” Kitty sympathetically agreed, moments before calmly overtaking a Sedan filled with the terrified teenagers who had cut them off only seconds before.

“Are we talking about the teenagers you just traumatized or – “

Had Gibbs been even marginally prepared for the sounds of one of Elvis Presley’s most famous songs, _Hound Dog,_ to suddenly fill the cab of the truck they were sitting in, and drown out the joyful melody of _9 to 5,_ he might not have nearly castrated himself by fumbling the large to-go container of boiling tea in his hands.

“Jethro,” Kitty politely inquired, utterly oblivious to the sheer disaster that had nearly befallen his penis, “Would you mind getting that for me? I don’t want to take my eyes off the road.”

Feeling somewhat reluctant, after having been forced to attend several sexual harassment seminars in the courses of his long career, to reach into the skirt pockets of a woman, especially one whom he was utterly alone with, Gibbs grimaced and struggled, in vain, to come up with some sort of excuse as to just why he couldn’t do as requested, not wishing to insinuate, in any form or fashion, all the while, that he was somehow fearful that she would accuse him of trying to grope her.

“Don’t worry,” Kitty encouraged, mistaking the source of his reluctance, “It’s only Blythe calling.”

And while that little tidbit of information did absolutely nothing to soothe his concerns about the potential of Kitty misconstruing the intent behind his pocket searching, Gibbs _did_ feel just a little bit better about answering her phone, now that he knew who was expected to be on the other line.

“Hello, - “

“Who the fuck is this?!” Blythe barked before he had finished, sounding distressed and aggravated all at once. “Put Kitty on the phone – _now!”_

Far more concerned about the state of Blythe’s wellbeing than he was about being barked at like he was still a grunt back in boot camp, Gibbs allowed his slightly wounded ego to go undefended as he responded to Blythe’s demands with a reluctant denial.

“I can’t.” Gibbs denied. “She’s driving.”

“ _Jesus fucking Christ.”_ Blythe exhaled, sounding near to hysterical. _“Jesus fucking Christ. I – “_

“Blythe,” Gibbs interrupted, by that point in time majorly concerned, “Are you okay?”

If Gibbs hadn’t been thoroughly concerned about the welfare of his friend before, which he most assuredly had been, he certainly became so when Blythe went suddenly silent and remained so for a good twenty seconds. Because Gibbs knew perfectly well, from his lengthy experience in the crime investigative field, that ten seconds was really all that was required for the worst of things to happen.

“Blythe? Are you still – “

“Jethro,” The blonde woman finally responded, eerily calm, “I know you’re busy with Kitty but…would you two mind swinging by and picking me up?”

“Of course.” Kitty confirmed, having listened in the whole entire time. “We’ll be there in ten minutes, alright?”

Not even wanting to consider the horrifying implications behind such a seemingly benign statement, seeing as how they were at _least_ a good fifteen minutes away, and in very heavy traffic to boot, Gibbs forced himself to concentrate on Blythe’s distress, rather than on the fact that he was surely about to witness some of the most traumatizing driving ever displayed on American roads.

“Do you want us to stay online with you?” Gibbs pressed.

“I’m crying my fucking eyes out, Jethro. _No_ , I don’t want you stay online with me.”

“Are you sure?” Gibbs fussed, rather reluctant to hang up.

“Yeah.” Blythe sniffed, seeming to get a better hold off herself. “I’ll see you in a bit. Goodbye.”

While it certainly wasn’t often that Gibbs felt disappointed at the ending of a phone call, barring those that involved Tony, of course, he couldn’t help but feel a certain amount of dread upon hearing that ominous click.

“Kitty, is she going to be okay?”

“Blythe is just going through a lot right now.” Kitty volunteered. “She and Blythe have been fighting a lot lately.” 

“She sounded really upset.” Gibbs noted, feeling himself frown.

Having temporarily removed herself from the conservation in order to better weave her truck into the neighboring lane, intense concentration needed to avoid inadvertently sideswiping anyone in the process, Kitty initially only frowned in response to his statement – prudently waiting until she had merged successfully, and flipped off any protesters of such, to focus on speaking again.

“Blythe is tough, Jethro.” Kitty evaded, looking somewhat strained as she labored to pilot her massive truck through another miniscule gap. “She’ll manage until we get there.”

Seeing no other option but to take his friend at her word, Gibbs nodded to show that he had been listening but otherwise remained silent, not really knowing what else could be said in such a situation. Because as much as he wanted to pry Kitty for more information, in order to better determine for himself whether or not Blythe was any immediate danger, he felt as if he couldn’t do so without running the risk of offending Kitty with the unintended insinuations that she wasn’t as in-the-know as she thought herself to be.

“Jethro…” Kitty hesitantly began, going a full ten over the speed limit. “What would you say about the idea of making today a girl’s day?”

“What do you mean?” Gibbs frowned, fearful of being mocked.

“No, Jethro,” Kitty immediately insisted, shaking her head, “Don’t take it that way. I _know_ you’re not a girl. I just meant – well – I was thinking why not get everyone together for a full day of fun? And end it all up with a good old-fashioned sleepover?”

Whilst the idea of experiencing all those quintessential things he had never been given the proper opportunity to experience as a child certainly appealed to him, a very great deal, and enticed him more than he would ever be willing to confess, just the thought of putting himself in a situation where it would be difficult to leave, i.e an activity with no determined end time, made his skin crawl and his stomach churn. For as much as he had been making some pretty great advancements in learning how to adequately deal with his rampant social anxiety, Gibbs still couldn’t help but feel as if he was being lured into some sort of trap – the age-old paranoia high school had left him with determined to make him believe that he was somehow agreeing to get his ass kicked by accepting an offer for companionship.

“I don’t know, Kitty.” Gibbs hesitated.

“C’mon, Jethro, it’ll be great! I promise!” Kitty worked to incentivized, eager and earnest. “We’ll do some shopping, watch a few shitty movies, eat some pizza – you don’t even need to stay the whole time if you don’t want to, although I hope you do.”

Wavering on his earlier resolve to remain firm in the decision not to attend an event he couldn’t reasonably expect to be given permission to leave early from, at least not without first causing his hostess some rather serious offense, now that he had actually been given said permission to leave early, should he so chose, Gibbs fiddled with the plastic lid covering his tea and pondered his options.

He _could_ say no, of course. That would probably be the simplest of decisions. However, he was actually somewhat excited about the idea of experiencing his very first sleepover. So, naturally, that left him with only the option to accept Kitty’s offer, although that potential decision left him with a problem all of its own - namely just how the hell he was supposed to answer should someone happen to ask him where he had been all morning and evening. Because as understanding as Ducky currently was when it came to his slightly more feminine nature, to the point where said older man was actually actively enabling his scented candle addiction, Gibbs just knew, instinctively, that the older man would tease him mercilessly about the sleepover should he catch wind of it. But, then again, Gibbs could just very well insinuate, if asked, that he had been ‘with a woman’ for the entirety of the day. There was certainly nothing gay, or mockable, about any of that.

“Alright, sure.” Gibbs finally agreed, forcing himself to sound nonchalant. “I mean, as long as that’s alright with you.”

“Jethro,” Kitty smiled, “I _just_ invited you, of course it’s okay.”

Completely unfamiliar with the concept of unconditional acceptance, save for when it came to a select few people in his life, Gibbs almost didn’t know how to respond to such unrestrained approval. Fortunately for him, however, Kitty promptly removed all the need for answers by wedging her enormous truck in between two large semis without warning, only moments before overtaking them in order to glide, via a hairpin turn, onto an offramp she had no business trying to get onto from so close by.


	14. Chapter 14

By the times Gibbs had sufficiently recovered from the total shock that Kitty had caused to his psyche, by way of performing a series of complicated driving maneuvers far more appropriate for a stunt driver to complete than an average untrained person, they were pulling onto the immaculately-kept Blout property, their formerly jovial mood utterly dissipated, and their mutual excitement for the upcoming sleepover quelled, as Kitty pressed down on the gas and floored it up the steep incline that constituted a quarter of the driveway. And whilst Gibbs could very well believe that the sudden deflation in their mood had come about from a myriad of factors, none of which involved the potential severity of Blythe’s earlier distress, such as the fact that they had hit a poor crow on the way over, and subsequently crushed it’s unfortunate corpse beneath the wheels of their truck, there was just no denying that their sudden somberness lay largely with the fact that they were about to walk in on some fairly distinct unpleasantness, the likes of which would certainly not be easily fixed – at least not by any conventional methods.

“Alright,” Kitty grimaced, parking the truck as near to the door as she could, “Time to get Blythe.”

And, even though Gibbs felt as if he was somehow being enmeshed in yet another specialized marine training session, given the degree of seriousness with which they were both approaching the situation at hand, he found himself nodding and slipping out of the truck at the exact same time as Kitty.

“Let’s do this.” Gibbs directed, looping their hands together in order to lend Kitty some nonverbal support.

Allowing herself but a brief moment to gather up the entirety of her courage, as well as to brush a particularly stubborn sprig of curls away from her face, Kitty sucked in a bracing deep breath and nodded, leading the way forward with all the determination of a four-star general. Something Gibbs was heartily grateful for, as he didn’t quite believe himself capable of approaching such a delicate situation with quite so much confidence without someone much more assured of themselves at his side. But, if Kitty was feeling any sort of resentment for having to carry the utmost bulk of such a stressful emotional labor, she certainly didn’t show any signs of such as she squeezed his arm encouragingly seconds before they entered the stately home without knocking.

“This way.” Kitty guided, gently steering him towards the ornate staircase.

Feeling no significant desire to protest against such sleuthing, even though he would ordinarily abhor such a behavior, were it done to himself, seeing as how said skulking was only being undertaken out of a very genuine desire to not further upset what could very well be an already tense situation, Gibbs nodded and followed bonelessly. And so, like two skilled burglars robbing the Louvre, they crept slowly up the stairs, neither one of them producing any sort of sound save for the soft swishing of Kitty’s beautiful skirt and the slight creak of Gibbs’s bum knee. In fact, it wasn’t until they had reached the door belonging to Blythe’s bedroom that any sound of consequence was produced – namely Kitty rapping softly at the door before pushing her way inside.

They found Blythe seated at her vanity, her posture tense and her face buried in her arms, her entire person radiating an acute distress that Gibbs couldn’t quite name yet, at the same time, really didn’t care to know – feeling as though if he gave said thing a name, it would somehow become a sentient thing and overtake them all without warning.

“Blythe,” Gibbs spoke, wishing to make their presence known, “We’re here.”

“Oh, _are_ you?” Blythe snapped, her tone venomous.

Opting not to take such vitriol personally, as he, himself, had very often reacted in a similar manner over the course of several years, whenever particularly stressed, _before_ his time in therapy had taught him how to better control his outward response to overpowering emotions, Gibbs refrained from snapping back, as he once would have, and instead looked towards Kitty, fully expecting her to take the lead now that it had become evident his presence was not exactly welcome at the moment. However, before could even so much as open her mouth, much less let loose a word, Blythe had shifted in her seat and spoken up again, this time far less hostilely and aggressively.

“Thanks for coming so quickly, you two.”

“Of course.” Kitty agreed. “We – “

Cut short from finishing whatever it was she had been about to say, by the jarring circumstances of Blythe lifting her head away from her arms, an act which subsequently revealed a rather large welt residing on her pale cheek, a mark that was almost certain to start bruising within the hour, Kitty floundered. But, very much a like a true trooper, pushed forward with her train of thought, utterly unwilling to let any further awkwardness descend upon an already uncomfortable situation. 

“ – Were just thinking, on the way over, that we ought to make today an official girls day. You know, hit up the mall and do some shopping before heading back to my place for movies and pizza.”

“Yeah.” Blythe sighed, looking anything but enthused. “Sure. Let me just pack a bag.”

“Pack your swimsuit.” Kitty advised. “Were ringing in hot tub season tonight.”

A somewhat distracted nod being her only response to such a weighted suggestion, Blythe moved slowly away from her vanity and trudged to the two massive closets lining the cream-colored walls of her bedroom, all without saying a word. And, if that weren’t already awkward enough, not to mention troubling, Blythe fetched free from one of the shelves a large suitcase and began to flood it with clothes seemingly grabbed at random, clearly intent on staying at Kitty’s home for far longer than just one measly overnight.

“Blythe – “ 

“No.” The short blonde interrupted, giving Gibbs a warning look. “We’re not doing this. At least not right now. Today…Today is going to be fun. That’s all there is to it.”

And, even though Gibbs’s rather significant time in therapy had actually gotten him to the point where he was no longer quite so eager to repress all his negative emotions, he patiently allowed his friend to go about repressing her own emotions, as he, himself, hadn’t much appreciated those precious few times in which someone had tried to force him into feeling his emotions before he was good and ready to do so. In fact, by doing so, those aforementioned people had only made him retreat even further into himself, inevitably causing him far more harm than good in the long run. But again, if he did just so happen to get some alone time with Blythe, over the course of the afternoon, he _would_ be asking her about that suspicious welt at least once – if only that he might offer her up some reassurances that his guestroom was always open should she need to make use of it. If, after all was said and done, she still decided to avoid the subject, well, so be it, he would have done all that he could in that moment.

“Kitty,” Blythe began, shoving a handful of socks into her suitcase, “Grab my purse, would you?”

More than just a little obliging when it came to carrying out the wishes of a woman who had clearly just been assaulted, and simply forever willing to offer up her assistance to people in general, Kitty nodded and moved towards the massive, repurposed, tree rack standing near Blythe’s vanity with the clear intent of collecting her friend’s purse. It was only as she actually arrived at said stand, and took in all the dozens of purses lining the branches of such, that she faltered, clearly and understandably overwhelmed by the sheer number of bags to select from.

“Which one are you planning to use today?” Kitty inquired, her fingers hovering over the fifteen or so purple selections, given the color of Blythe’s shirt.

“The one by my nightstand.” Blythe directed, throwing a series of jeans into her suitcase.

Much as she said it would be, the beautiful periwinkle Louis Vuitton was located right near the nightstand, its presence utterly unignorable as it lay sloppily slumped against the wooden furniture with half its contents already spilled out onto the floor.

“Oh, Blythe, I really wish you’d stop treating your bags like this.” Kitty admonished, delicately lifting the bag off the floor. “They’re going to get so dirty.”

“Then I’ll wash them.” Blythe dismissed, finally zipping up her suitcase. “Is my wallet in there?”

Poking an investigative finger into the sheer chaos that was the contents of Blythe’s bag, Kitty frowned in concentration and rooted around in the mess until, at last, she pulled out a threadbare fabric wallet that might have once been lavender.

“Yep.” Kitty confirmed, waggling the wallet in Blythe’s direction before popping it back into her purse.

“Alright then.” Blythe responded, hauling her giant suitcase up on its side. “Let’s get going.”

Taking quick not of the way in which his painfully short friend seemed to already be struggling with her oversized suitcase, to the point that she was actually leaning sideways just in order to sport the baggage on her hip, Gibbs stepped in and removed the baggage from Blythe’s possession without asking.

“I can carry my own bag.” Blythe protested, reaching for the suitcase.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.” Gibbs assured, retaining his grasp on the bag. “But you’re going to give yourself scoliosis carrying it like that. And I doubt walking the mall with be fun with a sore back.”

“Thanks.” Blythe surrendered, looking relieved. “Next round of coffee is on me.”

“There’s no need for that.” Gibbs dismissed.

And, seeing as how Blythe looked fully prepared to argue the matter with him, her innate sense of stubbornness every bit just as well-formed as his own, Gibbs took the initiative to avoid a squabble by pointedly taking his leave of the room – forcing the other two to follow after him.

“Don’t even bother trying to argue with him, Blythe.” Kitty advised, trudging down the stairs after Gibbs with her friend in tow. “It’s impossible to treat him to anything.”

“Don’t worry, Kitty, we’ll fix that soon enough I imagine.”

Knowing, almost instinctively, that there would be no winning in an argument with Blythe, at least not without a significant amount of effort being exhausted on both their parts, Gibbs simply rolled his eyes and opted for changing the subject.

“We should really get going if we want to beat midday traffic.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous.” Blythe dismissed, racing ahead to pull open the front door for him. “Kitty is driving. We don’t have to worry about traffic.”

“That’s not the _least_ bit comforting.” Gibbs sallied, his longer strides making it rather difficult for the two women to keep up.

And, seeing as how his longer stride had allowed him to arrive at the side of Kitty’s truck well before everyone else, Gibbs took it upon himself to gently place Blythe’s suitcase in the bed of the truck, figuring, as he did so, that he ought to make himself useful as he patiently waited for the two shorter-legged women to catch up with him.

“Damn, Jethro.” Blythe panted, out of breath as she finally made it to the truck. “You need to slow down. Kitty and I have itty-bitty legs.”

Not yet entirely confident that he had earned the right to poke fun at Blythe’s short stature, Gibbs tactfully refrained from making a Thumbelina reference and opted, instead, to pull open the passenger door for Blythe.

“Just hurrying to get the door opened for you.” Gibbs dryly remarked.

“What a gentleman.” Blythe crooned, patting him affectionately on the cheek.

More concerned about his friend potentially toppling backwards into the mud as she struggled to climb up into the massive truck then he was about just being playfully patronized, Gibbs simply rolled his eyes and stood ready to catch Blythe should she fall backwards.

“You really ought to consider getting side lifts for this beast.” Blythe groused, once she had successfully managed to seat herself.

“She already does.” Gibbs pointed out, climbing in behind her.

“I wouldn’t call those things lifts.” Blythe resentfully dismissed, before turning to face their driver. “Your vehicle is short person discriminatory, Kitty.”

“I _am_ a short people.” Kitty defended, lovingly starting up the engine of the truck.

“You’re _5’3_.” Blythe argued, her tone suggesting that such a height was unheard of.

“Which is fairly short, statistically speaking.” Kitty sallied.

And, thus declared, Kitty stomped down hard on the gas pedal, without warning, and floored the truck down the steep incline without hesitation – very nearly causing Blythe to fall out of her seat and tumble to the floor had Gibbs not been quick enough with her reflexes to catch her.

“Don’t worry, I’ll run her through a wash.” Kitty reassured, mistaking the origins of their horrified faces.

.


	15. Chapter 15

Having only been inside _The Larkin_ on one other occasion, ages ago, on the behest of Ducky, who had once insisted, erroneously, that one could purchase some fairly remarkable pipes in the rundown tobacco shop located near the back, so long as they reassured the salesperson that their products would only be used for tobacco, Gibbs found himself more than just a little overwhelmed as he walked through the front door of the enormous establishment with his new friends, as the interior looked far more clean, and posh, than he had remembered it being all those years ago. For not only was he _not_ immediately accosted by the fetid order of cheap weed and black mold, only moments after crossing the threshold, so too was he likewise _not_ assaulted by the previous, _outdated-even-back-then_ , décor that he had once heavily associated with the interior of said mall. What Gibbs received, instead, was a scent far more inviting than the previous and a tasteful, yet upscale, visage that far eclipsed the previous design. Leading him to wonder, most sincerely, if he had somehow mistaken the name of the rundown mall his older friend had once dragged him to. Because, if anyone were to ask him, he wouldn’t be able to say, with even the meagerest shred of confidence, that this upper-class facility was the exact same mall whose dingey bathrooms he had once watched his friend buy mushrooms in – while in the stall directly across from said drug-purchasing shenanigans, two druggies went at it like a duo of repressed Catholics finally given some much-needed permission to have sex.

“Didn’t this mall used to be a complete shithole?” Gibbs questioned, speaking softly so as not to offend the small gaggle of elderly ladies walking nearby.

“Better management took over fifteen years ago.” Kitty provided.

“Now the only bad thing about this mall is the evangelists.” Blythe contributed. “But security has been getting a lot better about keeping them out.”

Taking immense comfort in the knowing that he wasn’t like to be shanked anytime soon, or else pickpocketed and deprived of his wallet, Gibbs allowed himself to release a copious amount of the stress he had been holding onto ever since they had pulled into the parking lot of the mall, so relieved was he in knowing that there was now need for him to remain in protector mode throughout the duration of their excursion.

“Where are we off to first?” Blythe questioned, looking rather longingly in the direction of an old-fashioned candy store.

“Ingrid’s first.” Kitty decided. “We can visit _Mr. Gavroche’s Chocolates_ afterwards, once we drop off our canvases at the truck.” 

“Fine.” Blythe capitulated with a pout. “But I swear to God, if you make me suffer through another half hour of listening to you debate the differences between three shades of the same color paint, I’ll deliberately get you banned for life.”

Kitty had just enough time to gasp, and look appropriately horrified, before Blythe seized them both by their elbows and urged them forward, without any semblance of restraint, towards the doublewide escalators standing proudly in the midst of the ground floor, clearly very intent on getting them in and out of Ingrid’s just as fast humanly possible. And while Gibbs certainly didn’t begrudge the small woman her eagerness, especially not when her dainty strides were so damnably easy to keep pace with, he had to concede that the remaining patrons of the mall weren’t very likely to find it amusing if they clogged up the escalator in such an arguably obnoxious fashion. Nor, he figured, would any number of the uptight security guards. Thankfully, however, Kitty seemed to share the exact same line of thought.

“I hardly think that all this manhandling is necessary, Blythe. We’re all going to the same place.” Kitty chided, gently tugging her elbow free of its prison.

“If I don’t keep a tight on you, you’ll end up lost in the crowd.” Blythe argued. “You never learned how to use your elbows properly.” 

“I hardly think that any elbow jabbing will be necessary.” Gibbs mediated, freeing his own elbow.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Blythe argued. “People don’t always understand the importance of personal space.” 

Feeling fairly confident of his assumption that even one errant elbow jab would see them immediately removed from the establishment, and perhaps even permanently banned, judging from the priggishness of the guards alone, Gibbs pulled Blythe a little closer to himself and locked arms with her, figuring it best for everyone, if he remained in control of at least one of her elbows.

“We’ll worry about personal space invaders if they become a problem.” Gibbs compromised, keeping a firm hold on his friend’s elbow.

Thankfully satisfied enough with that particular negotiation to release some of the latent hostility she understandably held towards personal space invaders, Blythe relaxed her free elbow and allowed herself to be guided onto the escalator without complaint, her only slight misdeed coming about in the form of a nasty scowl aimed at a Mormon missionary making a beeline in their direction. Fortunately, however, Blythe’s golden opportunity for elbow jabbing was prevented by the timely intervention of a security guard, who, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, impatiently seized the proselytizer by his collar and dragged him away. After _that_ , it was smooth sailing, with all of them reaching the entrance to Ingrid’s without anything of further significance taking place to halt their progress.

“Welcome to paradise, Jethro.” Kitty announced, putting on a ‘Vanna White’ voice as she gesticulated reverently at the storefront.

“Don’t be so dramatic – ”

“I might never leave.” Gibbs interrupted, taking a moment to savor the welcoming visage that lay before him.

Because whilst his childhood sojourns into a nearby city had certainly been some of the biggest highlights of his youth, as accompanying his father on such a trek had almost always lead to him being given permission to pick out something small from _Michaelson’s Art Shop_ , so long as he behaved himself, which he almost always did, _Ingrid’s_ effortlessly dwarfed whatever expectations _Michaelson’s_ had once offered to his young and creative soul. For instead of just boasting a measly eight shelves, and condemning half of those to canvas storage, while the rest homed the modest selection of beginner-quality paints and brushes, and perhaps a few drawing notebooks, _Ingrid’s_ had clearly reserved more than just eight shelves for brushes, and brush sets, alone. And, if his nose wasn’t betraying him, which he doubted it was, there was even _clay_ available to be purchased in _Ingrid’s_ , whereas Gibbs had once been forced, as a determined teenager, to drive all the way into fucking _Pittsburgh_ for a project he had been determined to create for his advanced art class.

“I’m giving you two half an hour.” Blythe warned. “You two take any longer than that, and I’m causing a scene.”

“Be nice, Blythe.” Kitty mildly reproved, pinching her on the arm. “How many hours have I spent helping you to pick out a perfume?”

“Alright, fine.” Blythe frowned, rubbing at her freshly assaulted arm. “You can have an hour.”

Sparing only a moment to respond to her friend’s half-hearted demands with an annoyed sigh, Kitty looped her arm through Gibbs’s and pulled him, unresisting, into the glorious entity that was _Ingrid’s_ – leaving Blythe to scurry after them with a slight pout on her face.

“Come help me decide between colors.” Kitty implored. “I’m trying to keep it under twenty today.”

“I thought we were only here for canvases.” Blythe frowned, looking just as reluctant to enter the paint section of the store as Tony was to visit the doctor’s office.

“We’ll get those last.” Kitty explained. “Unless you’re volunteering to help us lug them around the store.”

“I think you already know the answer to that.” Blythe deadpanned, following reluctantly after her friend.

Had Gibbs still been an impressionable young child, the only thrill that would have overshadowed his experience of walking into the well-stocked paint section of _Ingrid’s_ would have been a visit with his grandmother to the musical theatre in Pittsburgh. For just as the actors of such a theatre had represented, for his younger self, a certain hope that his more flamboyant nature would one day be just as tolerated as the flamboyancy he saw displayed on the stage, the fact that he had actually managed to muster up enough energy, and excitement, to even enter an art store, after so many decades of depriving himself, was a fairly encouraging sign that he was finally getting some of his older, and truer, personality back.

“The watercolor paints are down that way.” Kitty advised, jerking her thumb at an aisle a few feet away. “Blythe and I will be over here, if you need us.”

Thus said, Kitty flashed him a quick smile before tugging a reluctant Blythe after her down into the aisle dedicated strictly to oil paints, the former with a noted pep in her step and the latter with a rather resigned look upon her face as she trailed behind her perkier friend with a shopping basket at the ready. And, finding himself alone, for the first time since arriving at the crowded mall, Gibbs idled his way towards the water colors paints with a little less reluctance than he had originally been planning to approach them, feeling just a little more comfortable now that he knew his two new friends couldn’t possibly tease him for any of the more feminine color selections he might make. Because even though he was _fairly_ certain that neither Blythe nor Kitty would poke fun at him if he navigated towards the more girlish of colors, there was still a part of his brain that nagged him with thoughts of getting mocked, and/or assaulted, for his girlier nature.

Gibbs was just debating whether or not he ought to go all out with his purchase, and spring for a package of 32 paints, with several shades of each of the main seven colors, rather than just purchase the main seven colors on their own, and thus run the risk of having to return should his creative muses up and demand more of a colorful palette, after so many years of neglect, when he felt a large, but gentle, hand on his shoulder.

“Could I help you find anything, Sir?”

Turning his head to find a handsome, only slightly younger, redhead to be the culprit behind such a mild groping, Gibbs froze, momentarily forgetting, for just a moment, that he wasn’t gay.

“I was just looking at the paint.” Gibbs explained, feeling hot and cold both at once.

“Were you looking for anything in particular?” The salesman inquired, failing to remove his arm from Gibbs’s shoulder.

“Not really.” Gibbs denied, feeling oddly discomforted. “I’ve just been looking to get back into painting. That’s all.”

“Allow me to suggest the 32 pack, then.” The comely redhead smiled, inching just a little bit closer. “More is more after all.” 

While Gibbs wasn’t exactly certain, he felt fairly confident that he had just been accosted by some sort of dirty double entendre. 

“And, if you’re looking to try something new, I have another suggestion.”

Now fairly confident that he was being flirted with, at least on some level or another, Gibbs felt his face flame hot and his stomach churn, his excitement undeniable even as he scooted, as discreetly as possible, a good half inch away from his unnamed admirer. Because straight or not, it was still rather flattering when a stranger paid you attention.

“Oh?” Gibbs asked. “What’s that?”

“Well,” The redhead began, his breath hot on Gibbs’s neck, “I was thinking that – “

Whatever the handsome stranger had been about to say, Gibbs would never know. As Kitty and Blythe chose, at that exact moment, to pop back into his line of sign without warning.

“Jethro,” Kitty faltered, her pale cheeks taking on a blush of their own, “I – ”

“Gouache.” The salesman blurted, immediately stepping away from him. “I would try the gouache.”

And, with that, his redheaded salesman took off, his face every bit just as red as his hair as he retreated towards the back of the shop, no doubt in pursuit of the safe haven that was the employee lounge.

“What was that, Jethro?” Blythe questioned, her tone a teasing one.

“Nothing!” Gibbs snapped, before schooling his tone. “He was just…making a suggestion. That’s all.”

His excuse, he knew, was an utterly pathetic one – especially seeing as how the nameless redhead had only been a mere fraction of an inch away from him at the time of said hypothetical suggestion making. But, nevertheless, he still snatched a variety pack of the aforementioned gouache up, wanting to lend at least a modicum of believability to the little fib he had just told.

“You’re blushing.” Blythe accused, smiling cheekily.

“I’m not.” Gibbs denied, throwing a package of brushes into his own basket.

Thankfully, for the sake of their friendship, Blythe was considerate enough to refrain from any further teasing, even going so far as to help Gibbs decide between packs of watercolor paint when she took note of his hesitation to do so on his own.

“Alright,” Kitty smiled, once Gibbs had finally given in to his muse and selected the more feminine set he had been eyeing from the start, “Let’s pick up some canvases and get out of here. The art students will be flooding in soon.”

“Not that _all_ art students are terrible.” Blythe smiled, using her elbow to jab Kitty in the ribs.

“Oh!” Kitty squeaked, her eyes going wide. “I didn’t mean – I was – What I meant – “

“It’s alright.” Gibbs reassured, taking her basket from her. “I know what you meant.”

Looking as relieved as a death row prisoner who had just been given a stay of execution, Kitty relaxed the shoulders she had just hunched and smiled apologetically at him, silently conveying her mortification one last time before leading everyone towards the canvases and suggesting a six-pack of such to him before selecting one for herself.

“You couldn’t have managed with just two?” Blythe groaned, helping Kitty to shoulder the load of the canvases.

“Could you manage with just two perfumes?” Kitty calmly sallied.

“Don’t judge me.” Blythe grumbled. “I like my scent to match my outfit.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Kitty frowned. “But I promise I’ll buy you a coffee on the way back home, for helping with the canvases.”

“Damn straight, you will.” Blythe muttered.

It was only after he and Kitty had checked out, and lugged their massive hauls back to Teddy’s truck, with minimal aid from a higher-maintenance Blythe, and far more assistance from a bulky teenager they had paid ten dollars to carry the canvases, that they finally made their way back inside to _Mr. Gavroche’s Chocolates_ , a factoid that seemed to almost instantly brighten Blythe’s somewhat dour mood. And, if he was being perfectly honest, his own mood as well. Because, like most people, he found it rather difficult to be anything but content in the face of chocolate and other various such confectionaries.

Gibbs’s good mood only increased as he physically crossed the threshold into the delicious smelling shop, as, much to his great surprise, as well as absolute delight, the interior of said shop was exactly like those from his childhood, with the whole store, in its entirety, boasting of a certain late 60’s aesthetics that was remarkably difficult to find nowadays, what with candies and confectionaries of every sort piled high in old-fashioned glass containers, the likes of which you scooped for yourself into small paper bags, and a certain sweet perfume to the air that you couldn’t quite get from a surplus of prepackaged confectionaries.

“Blythe!” The elderly shopkeeper beamed, just as soon as they walked in. “I see you brought a new friend! Welcome, welcome!”

Clearly holding a great deal of affection for the man who helped foster her sweets addiction, Blythe glided over towards the counters and allowed the older man to kiss her affectionately on the cheek.

“Come, come!” The lively shopkeeper insisted, his Greek accent thick as he gestured at Gibbs and Kitty. “Have a sample! Is good, very good! You tell them, Blythe.”

“Get in here and try some of this.” Blythe encouraged, waving them both over.

Feeling as if there were no good reasons for refusing such a generous offer, Gibbs did as bid and more than willingly accepted a small morsel of chocolate from the plate being offered to him and Kitty.

“Very good.” Gibbs applauded, making use of what little Greek he knew.

“You speak Greek, too?” Blythe demanded, sounding a little jealous. “Just how smart are you?”

“I told you,” Gibbs blushed, “I’m just good with languages. That’s all.”

“Good, yes.” The salesman agreed, looking proud. “Your pronunciation is almost good.”

Taking the ‘almost good’ as the compliment it was, seeing as how he hadn’t even been a passionate student when it came to learning what little of the Greek language he knew, Gibbs smiled his thanks at the friendly shopkeeper and moved away from the counter, allowing the customers behind him to make their purchases as he took off in pursuit of securing his own candy. And, of course, candy for the five younger adults under his direct supervision.

“I never thought I’d meet a person with a bigger sweet tooth than Blythe.” Kitty remarked, looking pointedly at the six bags in his hand.

“These are for my agents.” Gibbs explained, starting to fill one of the bags with saltwater taffy, for Jimmy.

Because even though Jimmy technically belonged to Ducky, not only by way of being his assistant, but pseudo-child as well, Gibbs still liked to spoil the younger man in the fashion that an uncle would spoil a favorite nephew – which, of course, meant plying him with all those things that Ducky outright refused to spoil him with.

“You’re a regular old Papa Bear, aren’t you?” Kitty teased, only filling _half_ her own bag with the same taffy.

“Everyone needs a little spoiling, every now and then.” Gibbs shrugged.

“Fair enough.” Kitty allowed, moving away to get in line to check out.

Subsequently finding himself alone, seeing as how Blythe was currently ransacking the store’s entire rock candy selection, Gibbs found himself approaching his self-assigned task of candy buying for his agents far more calmly, no longer feeling the need to restrain himself now that nobody was around to question his generosity when it came to filling the bags. And so, with nobody around to censor him, Gibbs went about filling his bags. For Tony, his absolute favorite, by way of being his only child, Gibbs selected a generous portion of the old-fashioned Tootsie Rolls he so favored. For the ever-traditional Kate, he chose homemade caramels, knowing her to enjoy them above all else. Abby, by virtue of having been on his proverbial ‘shit-list’ for the last several weeks, only got a dozen or so Twizzlers, the likes of which he chose at random, not even bothering to spare the time required to select the thickest of the bunch. It was only when it came time to select something for Tim, the youngest of his agents, that he struggled. For not only did he know precious little about the younger man in general, by virtue of said young man being incredibly shy, so too was he cognizant of the fact that Tim was actively dieting and, as such, was very likely not in the market for gifts of candy. But outright refusing not to get his youngest agent anything, Gibbs thought on it for a moment and eventually selected peppermint sticks, figuring those to be a safe enough, yet still thoughtful, option for someone counting calories. As for himself, as well as the rest of his agents, who would surely and inevitably beg some off of him, he chose a block of mint fudge, after first making certain that it was large enough to be divided into reasonably satisfying portions.

“Oh yes,” The Shopkeeper grinned, when at last Gibbs came to check out, “You are _very_ welcome here. Very welcome.”

With the price that Gibbs was paying for such quality confectionaries, he couldn’t quite blame the shopkeeper for his enthusiasm, as he was fairly certain he had just paid for a quarter of said man’s operating fees with his purchase alone.

“Well now that Jethro’s got enough candy to feed an orphanage, where to now?” Blythe demanded.

“Don’t look at _me_.” Gibbs immediately protested. “I picked the art store. _You_ pick.”

“ _I_ picked the art store.” Kitty argued. “You just agreed to come along.”

“I kind of feel like it was a more unanimous decision.” Gibbs argued.

“Spearheaded by _me_.” Kitty rebuttled. “So that means it’s your turn to pick a store.”

Feeling, rather keenly, that Kitty’s reasoning was specious, at best, and feeling rather peevish as a result, Gibbs frowned and tried, one last time, to remove the onus of decision making from his shoulders.

“You two are more familiar with this mall than me.” Gibbs argued. “One of _you_ needs to pick.”

“Jethro,” Blythe frowned, “We’re not leaving from this spot until you pick something that _you_ want to do.” 

“I _did_ want to go to the art store.” Gibbs reminded her.

But, when he received nothing but two annoyed frowns in response to his argument, Gibbs sighed and caved in, figuring there was no real point in creating an argument over something so markedly stupid as turn-taking.

“Fine.” He grumbled, giving them both a minor glower. “Does this place have a bookstore?”

He had been meaning to get his hands on some new regency-inspired romance novels, after all, now that he had read Flossy Cooper’s latest novel front-to-back a good three times.

“There’s a Barnes and Noble on the ground floor.” Kitty informed, looping their arms together. “Come on.”

Fortunately, for the sake of his anxiety, the bookstore was largely empty, save for just a small handful of other patrons, effectively leaving Gibbs to peruse the romance section of the store with Blythe whilst took on the intimidating herbology section all on her own – something Gibbs was heartily grateful for, for should he be pressed about what he was doing in such an overtly feminine space, he could just simply insinuate that he was only there to help _Blythe_ pick out a novel. And while said ruse was, admittedly, more than just a little uninspired in nature, Blythe was thankfully happy enough to play along, even going so far as to take a keen interest in all the books he glanced at, _flipping them over so he could read the back_ , and either returning them to the shelve, or her cart, depending on whether or he nodded of shook his head. Which, in the end, made for a rather awkward checkout for poor Blythe, who wound up purchasing an uncomfortable amount of romance novels with seemingly no good explanation to offer the confused clerk.

“Alright,” Gibbs sighed, once they were safely away from the incriminating scene, “One of you gets to pick where we go next.”

“Lush.” Kitty instantly decided.

“Lush.” Blythe agreed, finally pocketing the money Gibbs had passed her on the way out of the store.

“What the hell is a lush?” Gibbs demanded.

“Oh, Jethro.” Kitty grinned. “You’re in for a treat.”


	16. Chapter 16

After a rather lengthy sojourn in the veritable wonderland of lush, during which time Gibb’s had accrued for himself a rather significant haul of bath bombs, upon the advice of Blythe, who shared his fondness of smelling good, and another lengthy visit to Sephora, so that Blythe might pick out yet another perfume for herself, and Kitty a new can of dry shampoo, they were all finally on their way back to Kitty’s for the impromptu slumber party said woman had sprung upon them without warning, their shopping bags piled high in the bed of the truck and their bodies squeezed tightly together in the cab as the sounds of Dolly Parton filtered through the crackly radio.

“Anyone mind if we stop for coffee?” Kitty questioned, already turning into the drive through of a Starbucks.

“If I ever say no to that question, I want you to institutionalize me.” Gibbs insisted.

“If I ever say not to that question, I want you to shoot me.” Blythe expanded.

Thankfully being one of the very few people in their life who understood the fundamental necessity of coffee, Kitty refrained from lecturing them about their self-depreciating sense of humor as she brought her monster of a truck to an idle behind the short line of cars ahead of them.

“What do you guys want?” Kitty asked. 

“A vanilla sweet cream cold brew.” Blythe immediately answered.

“Jethro?”

“Just a black coffee, is all.” Gibbs assured, already fishing his wallet out of his pocket.

Even without the added benefit of Blythe slapping the wallet right out of his hands, Gibbs knew he wasn’t about to get his way in anything that involved this particular purchase – not even his first choice in beverages.

“Order something a little fun, Jethro.” Kitty insisted.

“Kitty’s right.” Blythe agreed. “Don’t be a fogie.”

“Well, what’s good?” Gibbs demanded, entirely resigned to his fate.

Although, if Gibbs was being entirely honest with himself, he wasn’t exactly _too_ put out about the concept of being pressured into trying new things, at least not so long as it was Kitty and Blythe during the pressuring. For as persistent as they were when it came time to pry him out of his shell, he had no doubts, whatsoever, that they only had his best interests in mind whenever they did so.

“It’s _all_ good.” Blythe insisted. “But what kinds of flavors do you like?”

“I don’t know.” Gibbs frowned, feeling a little overwhelmed as he looked at all the choices outlined on the outside bulletin.

“How do you not – “

“I’m ordering you an iced dark chocolate mocha.” Kitty decided. “You’ll like it.”

As it soon turned out, Gibbs did, in fact, enjoy his iced dark chocolate mocha, as well as the dragon drink Kitty allowed him to take a sip from in exchange for a swig of his own drink, to the point where he almost forgot to be a little grumpy about the fact that Kitty had both insisted, and managed, to pay for their beverages this time – an underhanded feat only accomplished by the fact that said woman was the only one who had full reign of the driver’s side window, and thus the only access to the barista.

“Shouldn’t we text Imogen and let her know we’re having a sleepover?”

“Dinah just got done with a 14-hour shift.” Kitty reminded. “I’m sure Imogen has other plans in mind for her evening.”

“You know, you could have just said she was busy.” Gibbs blushed.

“Don’t be a prude.” Blythe lectured, stealing a sip of his iced coffee.

Not at all a germaphobe, like Kate, Gibbs retaliated by stealing a solid drink from Blythe’s own cup.

“You know,” Gibbs frowned, “I’m pretty sure this how people get mono.”

“If you got mono, maybe you’d actually take a day off work.” Blythe sallied.

“If I ever miss a day of work, presume I’m dead.” Gibbs answered.

And he was not being the least bit dramatic either, for the last time he had been forced to take time off of work by the busybodies in HR, on the spurious grounds that the local labor board was getting rather suspicious of the insane amounts of overtime he had accrued over the years, Gibbs had gone a little bit crazy by day two and had nearly convinced himself that volunteering his services at the FBI was a reasonable thing to do. 

“Jethro,” Kitty frowned, weaving in between cars with expert precision, “Don’t you ever want to have more time for your hobbies?”

“Or any future grandchildren?” Blythe amended.

“I doubt Tony is going to be making babies anytime soon.” Gibbs dismissed, sincerely hoping that he was correct in that regard. “And, to be perfectly honest, I don’t really have that many hobbies. I mean, I only just recently remembered that I liked painting.”

“So wouldn’t it be nice to have more time to explore that passion?” Kitty pressed.

Understanding that his friends were only trying to express their concern for his somewhat severe work addiction, in the politest way possible, Gibbs refrained from snapping at them and instead concentrated all his efforts on trying to explain _his_ side of things without either sounding like an asshole or, worst of all, a sad sack.

“I can’t see how.” Gibbs frowned. “It’s not like I’m ever going to get accepted into a prestigious art school again. That ship has sailed.”

And even though Gibbs did have to admit, at least to his therapist, that he oftentimes felt robbed of the future he had always dreamed of having as a little kid, by the U.S military, who had claimed to care about _all_ its servicemen, only to turn around and treat him like shit for being gay, he had eventually, and reluctantly, come to accept the fact that he would never get his adolescence and young adulthood back - and, that just being how things were, there was no real point in pining over the ‘could-haves’ of his life. Doing so, he figured, would only ever serve to make him more resentful of his service than he already was. And Gibbs didn’t exactly _like_ feeling resentful of his service in the first face, seeing as how he felt that such a feeling almost cheapened what little good he had managed to do while conscripted.

“You didn’t apply to art school with the aim of making money.” Kitty denied, gently calling him out on his bullshit. “Nobody does.”

“Maybe not.” Gibbs allowed. “But there’s still no point in quitting work just to work on my painting.”

“What about the enrichment of your soul?” Kitty challenged. “You deserve to do the things that make you happy.”

“I’m happy enough with my life as it is.” Gibbs insisted, only partially dishonest.

For while it was, admittedly, somewhat difficult for him to deal with the thinly veiled disrespect he received from the still-active officers he occasionally ran into during the course of his workday, all of whom had frustratingly failed to forget the abhorrence they had felt for him from the very start, and as much as his self-imposed ten hour workdays seemed to utterly wear him out lately, both physically and mentally, he really did love getting to solve the puzzle of a crime, almost as much as he loved getting to see, and work, with his team every day.

“I don’t doubt that you’re content.” Kitty allowed, seeing right through his deception.

“Look, the only reason I got into the NCIS in the first place was to help people.” Gibbs rationalized. “And drawing pictures doesn’t help anyone.”

“Jethro, don’t you think you’ve already given enough of yourself to people?” Kitty delicately pressed. “When is it time to start thinking about yourself?”

“I mean, it’s not like you can’t volunteer your time once you retire.” Blythe added. “I work with the elderly all the time.”

“I just don’t think I’m ready to give up working yet.” Gibbs admitted, wanting to put an end to such an uncomfortable conversation.

Because as much as he liked to think that his eventual retirement was far off, he was starting to fear that some military-authorized retaliation was soon to come his way. If not in the form of being completely harassed until he quit the NCIS, then surely by way of being forced to retire from the team. And Gibbs didn’t much feel like stewing over that particular worry on an evening that was meant to be fun, especially not after having devoted every other night to said concerns.

“Well, we’ll be there for you when you are.” Kitty comforted, momentarily moving one hand away from the wheel to give his fingers a squeeze.

“Thanks.” Gibbs mumbled, feeling just a little bit awkward.

Fortunately, however, neither one of them had very long to contemplate such an uncomfortable awkwardness, as only a few short moments later Kitty was pulling up to the curb in front of her home and laying on the horn of her truck.

“What?” Gibbs teased. “Are you letting your _plants_ know that you’re home?” 

“Don’t be silly.” Kitty dismissed, honking her horn once more. “I’m calling Teddy out to come help with carrying all this stuff inside.”

For some reason presuming that Teddy would be of a similar stature to Kitty, not to mention a woman, Gibbs was completely taken aback when a man, and a rather large one at that, seemed to heed the call, emerging out of the greenery of the yard without warning and with a rather dopey smile on his face.

“Teddy!” Kitty beamed, practically flying out of the truck to greet the man with a powerful hug.

“Are you serious?” Gibbs demanded, turning to face Blythe. “Teddy is a _man_?”

“Well, yeah.” Blythe confirmed, looking just as confused as he felt. “Not all artists are gay, you know. Just most of them.”

“That’s not – I didn’t mean – “

Much to his great annoyance, Gibbs didn’t even have time to defend his question before the passenger side door of the truck was being ripped open by an overly excited Kitty.

“Jethro!” Kitty beamed, practically pulling him out of his seat. “This is Teddy!”

“Hi.” Gibbs managed, holding out a hand.

“Hey, Jethro.” Teddy returned, just as perky as his girlfriend. “It’s nice to meet you!”

“Yeah.” Gibbs agreed. “You too.”

All the appropriate pleasantries thus exchanged, the packaged filling the bed of the massive truck were soon dispersed accordingly, with the men taking the heaviest of such for themselves, and the ladies the lighter of the parcels – making their trek into Kitty’s home far easier than it would have been had Blythe been forced to carry anything heavier than brushes.

“We’ll be upstairs.” Kitty informed her man, giving said man a peck on the cheek.

“And I’ll be with the guys.” Teddy returned, kissing her back. “Don’t wait up.”

“I’ll walk you to your truck.” Kitty decided, already looping their arms together. “You two head on up to my room, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Suspecting that it would take Kitty far more than just a solitary minute to properly wish her boyfriend goodbye, Gibbs nodded and followed after Blythe, pausing only a moment to poke Kitty in the ribs and whisper: “Don’t worry, we won’t wait up.”

As could only be expected of someone boasting such a naturally sunny disposition, Kitty’s bedroom was decorated brightly, with the walls a pleasantly soft pink and the bedding a similarly hued cream.

“You know, I never had any Barbies growing up.” Blythe remarked, settling herself down atop the bed with a marked familiarity. “But I can just imagine this is what her Dream House looked like.”

Having had, for himself, almost more than a dozen Barbie Dolls growing up, on account of being a fairly spoiled only child, as well as overtly feminine in his youth, Gibbs knew for a fact that Blythe’s comparison was far more accurate than not. That did not mean, however, that he was about to give voice to such an embarrassing fact – at least not without some fairly significant persuasion.

“Well, I don’t know about any of that,” Gibbs evaded, seating him in an overstuffed papasan chair, “But I _do_ know that this is almost exactly what my childhood bedroom looked like.”

And it was no mere exaggeration Gibbs was making either, for aside from a distinct lack of porcelain dolls and matchbox cars, Kitty’s room was almost an exact replica of his own childhood bedroom – albeit just a little bit bigger and modern.

“You’re fucking with me, right?” Blythe queried, sounding unsure.

“Not really.” Gibbs readily admitted. “Mine might have actually been a little girlier, to be honest. I sort of had an obsession with dolls.”

Despite looking as if she wanted to do nothing more than tease him about his childhood toy preferences, a desire he honestly understood, at least to a certain degree, Blythe thankfully had the forbearance, and tact, to refrain from doing so.

“I don’t understand it.” Blythe remarked, flopping over to lay on her belly. “If you were so girly when you were a kid, what happened to make that all stop? I mean, I know children go through certain phases, but still…It seems a pretty extreme personality change to go from girly to gruff.”

“I think bootcamp fixed a lot about me.” Gibbs volunteered.

“Fixed?” Blythe frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I think we both know that men aren’t supposed to be delicate.” Gibbs frowned, finding himself picking at a nonexistent hangnail. “It’s just that nobody ever really bothered to call me out on my shit until bootcamp.”

In fact, apart from the very few times his mother had outright refused to indulge the more taboo desires of his girly nature, by way of forbidding him to pierce his ears or even paint his fingernails, Gibbs had pretty much been given free rein to do as he willed whilst at home, just so long as he didn’t make a mess or miss a shift at the store. It wasn’t until he had found himself thrust into bootcamp, entirely against his will, and up against the collective hatred of his whole entire unit, privates and sergeants alike, that Gibbs had started to realize, quite belatedly, that perhaps his former schoolmates really _had_ been correct when it came to labeling him as weird and unrelatable. Because as much as it had been easy to pretend that the ten other boys in his small classroom had been wrong about him, just because his Uncle LJ had said so, it was a far more difficult feat to continue to delude himself of such a fact in the face of more than thrice that number and vitriol.

“You mean a fairly abusive organization terrorized you into changing a core aspect of your being?” Blythe challenged. “Color me shocked.”

“Call it whatever you like.” Gibbs frowned. “A different explanation doesn’t change anything. What’s done is done.”

And, as far as Gibbs was concerned, there was no real point in trying to change the way things currently were, at least not now, given his slowly advancing age – no matter _how_ much his therapist might like to beg to differ in that regard.

“But it’s not done, is it?” Blythe challenged, suddenly philosophical. “You still really like doing all that girly stuff, you’re just not letting yourself actively enjoy it.”

“That’s not true.” Gibbs immediately denied, not really knowing which of his friend’s statements he was outright denying. “I still have scented candles…”

“Jethro, if I went into your home right now, would I actually see them out? Or would they all be hidden away?”

Although he did, in fact, have a honeysuckle scented candle situated proudly on his bedroom nightstand back at home, on virtue of said candle having been a recent birthday gift from his aunt that he was just too sentimental to hide, Gibbs would be lying if he claimed to have the rest of his small collection of candles out in the open – as after receiving a particularly, yet unintentionally, savage roast session from Ducky last fall, chiefly on the subject of such an item, Gibbs had felt bizarrely inspired to relocate his two dozen or so candles down into the now seldom-used workshop in basement, if not to remove the reminder of such an unprecedented roast from his find, then almost certainly to prevent the potential of another from taking place again.

“Look, just because a girl can get away with doing guy things doesn’t mean the reverse is also true.” Gibbs reasoned. “When’s the last time you’ve seen a girl get her ass kicked for liking football? Or for wearing a pair of men’s pants?”

“Jethro,” Blythe frowned, moving into a sitting position, “You’re over six feet tall now, and strong as shit. Who the hell is going to give you shit if you wear pink or if you buy a candle?”

Knowing, firsthand, that a physical assault wasn’t the only way in which one man could harm another, Gibbs frowned and tried not to think too hard on all those times he’d spent crying in the stalls of a bathroom during school or under the covers his cot during boot camp.

“I just don’t think it’s worth the hassle.” Gibbs evaded.

“So what,” Blythe challenged, “You’re just going to deprive yourself of your genuine hobbies for the rest of your life?”

“It’s not as awful as you think it is.” Gibbs reassured. “And I’m used to it by now.”

“Jethro,” Blythe frowned, “That’s no way to live your life.” 

“It’s fine.” Gibbs dismissed. “It’s been so long that I don’t even really miss doing those things anymore.”

That was, of course, a complete and total lie. But whilst Gibbs felt naturally guilty about participating in such an uncharacteristic display of dishonesty, especially so since he had directed it towards a friend, he quickly rationalized away the guilt of such a minor betrayal by assuring himself of the fact that had he actually been honest with Blythe about actually missing his participation in the girlier facets of life, Blythe would have immediately banded together with Kitty to coerce him into doing something he was not yet ready to do again.

“Jethro, you had a blast in Lush. Don’t lie to me.” Blythe persisted.

Having long since come to realize that Blythe was far more stubborn than he could ever accurately conceptualize, perhaps even more so than himself, and every bit just as unwilling to back down from the thrill of a challenge, whether physical or mental, Gibbs sighed softly to himself and silently surrendered to the stronger will of his slightly more tenacious friend. 

“Look,” Gibbs bargained, sitting up just a little bit straighter, “I need to tell you something important. But you have to keep it a secret, alright?”

“Sure.” Blythe agreed, almost too casual for his liking.

“I need you to promise.” Gibbs insisted, a little too forcefully.

“Alright,” Blythe acquiesced, looking him straight in the eyes, “I promise.”

Detecting nothing but the utmost sincerity in her answer, Gibbs took a deep breath and closed his eyes before pushing onward with the truth, entrusting Blythe with a secret he hadn’t even trusted his own child with.

“I’m in some pretty deep shit with the military right now.” Gibbs elaborated. “And…I’d rather not do anything to piss them off further. At least not until this mess of mine blows over.” 

“What kind of trouble do you mean?” Blythe asked, sounding concerned.

“A while back, I outed a sergeant for raping underaged civilians.” Gibbs expanded. “And now they want me to perjure myself to protect him or…”

“Or what?”

Deciding to put his faith in a friendship for the first time since meeting Ducky, Gibbs opened his eyes and looked straight at Blythe.

“Or they’ll out me.”

Perhaps having a far better grip on the intricacies of his own sexuality than even himself, Blythe didn’t even so much as blink at the implicit confession of his homosexuality, but rather only viscerally reacted to the news that he was currently being blackmailed by an organization that was meant to protect citizens.

“Jethro, you’re not going to give in, are you?”

“No.” Gibbs readily denied. “But, if I play nice, maybe they’ll make it a quick death.”

But, even before he gave voice to such a hope, Gibbs knew it wasn’t true. A pissed of Marine was one thing, after all, but a pissed off Marine _sergeant_ was quite another. And Gibbs had pissed off more than just one of them with his remorseless whistleblowing.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better Jethro, I honestly feel as if people are way more accepting of us nowadays. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think it will.”

“It really doesn’t matter _how_ bad it ends up being.” Gibbs asserted. “Either way I end up a disgraced Marine.”

“You served honorably, Jethro.” Blythe insisted. “And they can never take that away from you.”

Although Gibbs had already come to the belated conclusion that nobody would ever be able to deny the countless acts of heroism he had carried out during his repeated tours of service, his therapist having practically refused to let him leave until he had eventually come to that consensus on his own, it still stood to reason that being met with a sudden flood of vitriol would be difficult for _anyone_ , let alone one so admittedly sensitive as himself.

“They’re going to try though.” Gibbs frowned. “And they’re not going to be gentle about it either.”

“Then they had best watch their backs.” Blythe responded, her growl playful and serious all at once. “Because they’ve got a storm coming their way.”

“What? Are you going to take on the entire US military with me, Blythe?” Gibbs asked, playing along.

“Of course.” Blythe promptly assured. “I’m a ride or die bitch.”

The remark had been meant to lighten the mood, Gibbs knew, but even then he found that he quite couldn’t refrain from angling the conversation back to the serious.

“Speaking of that…”

“Jethro,” Blythe frowned, looking away from his face, “ _Don’t_.”

“I’m not going to lecture you.” Gibbs reassured. “I’m just letting you know that my door is always open, alright? No questions asked, just come whenever you need to.”

“What?” Blythe challenged. “Are you going to help me take on the wrath of the Jews?”

“It shouldn’t be that hard if we do it on the Sabbath.” Gibbs joked.

Although Gibbs would have ordinarily never laughed at a racist joke, having been raised far better than that, he felt as if the fact that said joke had only been directed at one Jew in particular, _Alice,_ made it acceptable to at least chuckle along with Blythe.

“What’s so funny?” Kitty asked, bouncing into the room with a trayful of pizza.

“Nothing really.” Gibbs dismissed.

“You had to be there.” Blythe shrugged.

“Oh, it’s like _that_ , is it?” Kitty pouted, closing the door behind her with a foot. “Well, no pizza for either one of you then.”

“We have a surplus of candy.” Blythe reminded her. “We don’t need your pizza.”

Despite being fully aware of the fact that the teasing currently taking place was of a friendly nature, Gibbs still found that he couldn’t help but try and steer the conversation onto another topic, wishing to distract Kitty with another subject before she could think to press him on the subject of his earlier joke.

“Apart from the pizza, what’s on the agenda for tonight?”

“I was thinking we could watch a movie or two.” Kitty answered. “And then hit the hot tub with some drinks once the sun goes down.”

“Sounds good to me.” Blythe agreed, already stealing a slice of the pizza.

“Jethro,” Kitty asked, “Are you okay with it, too?”

“Of course.” Gibbs agreed.

“Then get up here,” Kitty directed, climbing up onto her bed, “And grab a slice of pizza. Movie night is about to begin.”

Although he was relieved to see that Kitty had taken it upon herself to cook up a cheese pizza, rather than the stereotypical pepperoni he was sure Blythe would have preferred, Gibbs wasn’t at all that eager to climb up into a bed with two women, particularly so when one of those woman had a fairly large fiancé.

“Are you sure Teddy won’t mind?” Gibbs hesitated.

“Yeah, because Teddy is _really_ going to mind a gay guy climbing into bed with his wife.”

“You got me there.” Gibbs allowed, finally moving to lower himself onto the bed. “What movie are we watching?” 

“Pretty Woman.” Blythe immediately suggested.

“I love that movie.” Gibbs announced, voicing his agreement to the idea.

“Pretty Woman it is.” Kitty obliged, booting up the massive tv in her bedroom with a remote.

Everyone naturally being a fan of one the best movies ever made, it wasn’t until halfway through the movie that anybody deigned to speak.

“Julia Roberts should’ve used some of the money she made from the movie to fix whatever the fuck is going on with her teeth.” Blythe remarked.

“ _Harsh.”_ Kitty reprimanded, elbowing her in the ribs.

“But true.” Gibbs defended.

“She was good enough for _Edward_ to accept.” Kitty reminded.

“If this was real life, Edward would have moved on from her after only six weeks.” Gibbs snarked. “Edward is a villain in this movie, too.”

“You’re telling me that if someone like Richard Gere _paid_ you to be with him, you’d still say no?” Blythe demanded. “For fucks sake, Jethro, just look at him.”

“Absolutely not.” Gibbs insisted. “Collin Firth, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.”


	17. Chapter 17

Whilst Gibbs would have ordinarily _never_ willingly agreed to step a foot outdoors if the weather was anything but balmy sixty-five degree, sans breeze, he soon found that with the coupled persuasion of a few fairly strong margaritas and some copious needling from his friends, that being outdoors on a sixty degree evening really wasn’t all that bad, just so long as one had the benefit of a topnotch hot tub too keep himself sheltered from the slight chill of the night air and the company of good friends to keep him distracted from the fact that he was sure to regret that nights activities the following morning.

“Okay,” Kitty slurred, after spilling about half of her fourth drink into the water, “I think…I think we’ve had enough for now.” 

“Yeah.” Gibbs agreed, feeling a bit lightheaded himself. “What…What time is it anyways?”

Despite looking as if she was already thoroughly passed out, Blythe sat up just a fraction and brought her pruney hand up out of the water to check the waterproof watch on her tiny wrist.

“Nine…” Blythe slurred, her chin dipping beneath the water with her hand.

“No.” Gibbs frowned, removing his own hand from the gently churning water to check his own watch. “It’s – _holy shit_ , it’s one in the morning.”

“Jeepers.” Kitty shuddered, pulling on Blythe’s hair to lift her head out of the water.

“We…better get out.” Gibbs suggested. “Before we fall asleep in here.”

Because as pleasant as such a scenario might have sounded to him years ago, Ducky had all but ruined the whimsy of such a notion by detailing to Gibbs, entirely unprompted, all the ways in which one could meet their deaths in a hot tub.

“C’mon girls.” He coaxed, rising slowly to his feet. “We need to drink some water.”

Although Gibbs would have loved to claim to a bemused Teddy the following morning, that he had managed to get both himself, and the ladies, out of the hot tub without issue, and back into the relative safety of the house, with general ease, the truth of the matter was far more unflattering than that. For even though Gibbs was, at the very least, a good foot taller than each of the women in his company, and a good deal stronger to boot, he soon found that with as drunk as he, himself, was that navigating Kitty’s plant filled backyard was rather difficult, especially so when one was forced to keep a certain blonde dwarf from outright collapsing into the fucking mud beneath their feet.

“Blythe,” Gibbs groaned, feeling dizzier than he cared to admit, “Use your goddamn legs before I throw you over my shoulder.”

“I’m not potatoes, you bastard.” Blythe slurred, bumping into an already unsteady Kitty.

Too slow to stop the inevitable from happening, Gibbs watched in mild concern as both tiny women went flying down into the grass.

“Just forget it.” Blythe groaned, rolling onto her belly. “I’m just going to sleep here.”

“Blythe,” Kitty frowned, struggling clumsily to her feet, “The ants!”

“Fuck.” Blythe groaned, reluctantly rolling over and sitting up.

Despite being nowhere near sober enough for it to be safe for him to do so, Gibbs took pity on his small friend and crouched down, trying not to topple over backwards as he patiently waited for Blythe to take the hint and climb up onto his back for the impromptu piggyback he was offering. Which, had Kitty not given her a soft nudge via foot, very well might have taken an inordinate amount of time.

“Giddyup.” Blythe encouraged, squeezing his waist with her thighs.

“You’re one step away from being bucked off.” Gibbs warned, slowly trudging forward.

Fortunately, for the sake of all involved, Blythe was able to abstain from any further shenanigans, enabling both Gibbs and Kitty to reach the backdoor of the latter’s home without anything of significance taking place, save for Gibbs very nearly tripping over the bottom step before catching himself on the railing.

“Alright,” Kitty commanded, speaking more loudly than necessary, “Everyone be quiet. Teddy is sleeping.”

Thinking, to himself, of course, that if Teddy hadn’t already been awoken by their rather loud and boisterous conversation in the hot tub almost directly beneath the master bedroom’s window, that he was now most surely awake after Kitty’s very loud demand that they be quiet, Gibbs frowned and only hoped that said man wouldn’t hold it against them too much.

“Is anyone else tired?” Blythe mumbled, her breath hot in Gibbs’s ear as they pushed their way into the kitchen.

“You and Jethro can have the guest room.” Kitty offered, already stumbling her way out of the kitchen. “I’m going to bed.”

And, by virtue of being the most sober of their little trio, despite having downed enough alcohol to inebriate a small horse, Kitty practically left them in her metaphorical dust as she took off in fevered pursuit of her slumbering boyfriend’s company – in very clear want of private activities that Gibbs just didn’t care to think about at the moment.

“Are you going to take me to bed or not?” Blythe demanded, already sounding more than half-asleep.

“I suppose.” Gibbs obliged. “But don’t go getting any ideas now. I’m still gay.”

Had Blythe not been absolutely hammered by that point in time, Gibbs might very well have been more than just a little offended by her only response to his joke being a soft chortle. But, as it was, his tiny blonde friend was clearly drunk enough to be well beyond the point of any significant comprehension, and, given such, entirely innocent of any intentional wrongdoing. And so he, being quite drunk himself, readily forgave her for the unintended slight, even going so far as to continue carting her around on his back despite it being arguably dangerous for him to do so when it came to ascending the narrow stairs of Kitty’s eclectic home.

“That door, right there.” Blythe directed, wriggling one set of her painted toes at a slightly shut bedroom door.

More than just a little eager to crawl his way into a warm and soft bed, Gibbs pushed through the bedroom door with more gusto than was strictly necessary, very nearly banging the door against the wall as he did so and only avoiding such an awkward fate by a measly half inch.

“Bombs away.” Gibbs intoned sardonically, promptly depositing Blythe down onto the queen mattress without warning. 

Apart from a soft grunt, however, Blythe had no real complaints or objections to such indelicate treatment.

“Turn around.” Gibbs directed, already unbuttoning his jeans. “I’m getting into my pajamas.”

“Believe me,” Blythe mumbled, “There’s nothing your pants that I want to see.”

“Just turn around, would you?” Gibbs insisted, giving her an exasperated look.

Because as ridiculous as such a request might have made him look, given that they were both established homosexuals, Blythe _was_ a married woman at the end of the day. And in addition to wanting to honor the sanctity of another person’s marriage, Gibbs really didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize that relationship any more than it already was at the moment, especially not now, when it had become abundantly clear that said relationship involved some degree of domestic violence.

“You can look now.” Gibbs allowed, turning around.

Unfortunately, however, he had failed to take into account the fact this his friend would also be in want of her own pajamas. For just seconds after turning around, Gibbs was met with the shocking sight of Blythe slipping a silken nightgown over her head, her midriff, and everything below, on full display as she worked the pink garment down over her tiny body.

“You should really warn a guy.” Gibbs admonished, feeling his face flame hot.

“Are my boobs really that offensive?” Blythe challenged.

“Well, no.” Gibbs denied, still a little bit mortified. “But still…”

“Jethro, shut up and climb into bed.” Blythe growled. “I’m tired.”

Although Gibbs would have very much liked to press his point, seeing as how he felt he was almost entirely in the right when it came to proper ‘friends dressing in the same room protocol,’ he found himself capitulating to Blythe’s demands almost immediately, far too tired himself to muster up any portion of energy for such an unimportant argument.

“Do you want me to sleep at the foot?” Gibbs asked, his parents having always taught him to be chivalrous.

“Don’t be stupid, Jethro.” Blythe grumbled. “I hardly think you’re going to be getting up to any funny business.”

“I just don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.” Gibbs explained.

“You’re fine.” Blythe promptly assured, turning back his portion of the blankets. “Now get over here.”

By that point in their discussion feeling as if he had been granted informed consent to enter the bed, the verbal strength of which could only be outdone by a written contract, Gibbs stretched one last time and slowly wriggled himself beneath the heavy yellow blankets, grateful for both their warmth and their softness.

“We’re going to be so fucked tomorrow.” Blythe groaned, curling up against him like a contented cat.

“I know.” Gibbs commiserated, feeling himself frown. “It’s been almost year since I let myself get this drunk. 

Of course, when one’s own child discovered you passed out in the bathtub with a bottle of bourbon still clutched in your hands, one tended to be naturally turned off from drinking to excess for quite awhile, as there was nothing quite like the application of shame to discourage a bad habit from continuing.

“Oh,” Blythe pipped, her breath hot on his neck, “We didn’t make you do something you didn’t want to do, did we?”

“No.” Gibbs promptly reassured, wishing to put his friend at ease. “It wasn’t an alcoholic thing, really. It was more of a…depression thing, I guess. But I’m better now.”

“Good.” Blythe smiled. “I like having you around.”

“Thanks.” Gibbs smiled back, ridiculously touched by such a simple declaration of friendship.

It was only after several minutes had elapsed, the exact number of which he didn’t exactly care to disclose, without his friend making any word or sound of reply, that Gibbs realized his friend had fallen straight asleep, her blonde head pressed firmly up against his shoulder and her arm strewn slopping across his chest, her unrestrained familiarity with his body boasting of a confident closeness he hadn’t even realized they shared with one another until that moment in time. And, almost as an afterthought, Gibbs realized just how touch-starved he had become over the long years of his life, going from being practically attached to either one of his parent’s hips, to being outright shunned, like a leper, for a fairly significant portion of his life before returning to being a civilian only to shun, out of outright abusive conditioning, any physical attention that didn’t come from Tony. Because as much as Gibbs both recognized, and appreciated, Ducky for the unyielding friendship he had offered him throughout the years, even when Gibbs had been at his most unlikeable, Ducky was a man’s man at the end of the day, and would, without a doubt, respond very poorly to any attempts at platonic snuggling. Not because he was homophobic, of course, but simply because there just certain things that heterosexual men wouldn’t do with other men, whether said other men were straight or not.

Eventually, Gibbs fell asleep himself, the combined strength of alcohol and knowing he was cared for, unconditionally, lulling him into the peaceful sort of sleep he hadn’t felt since he was a small child, still young and small enough to crawl in between his sleeping parents without waking either one of them up – and knowing, intrinsically, in the way all well-loved children did, that even if he did happen to wake up, his presence wouldn’t be resented at all.

Much in keeping with the good vibes that had put him directly to sleep, Gibbs awoke gradually the following morning to the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the sounds of gentle, yet erratic, humming. Although, if he was being completely honest with himself, something his therapist was always encouraging him to do, he could have done without the pile of various cats lined up all along his body, as well as done without Blythe’s currently freezing hand pressed up against his bare chest – not to mention the hank of Kitty’s dark curls stuck inside his mouth.

“Kitty,” Gibbs grumbled, spitting on her hair, “Scoot over.”

Garnering no significant reply from the loudly snoring Kitty, other than a horrifically manly grunt, that may or may not have been a deliberate response to having just been jostled, Gibbs sighed loudly and tried, and failed, to move the dead-asleep culprit over just a fraction of an inch.

“It’s no good, Jethro.” Blythe mumbled, awkwardly removing her hand from beneath his shirt. “She’s like a fucking cat. She’ll only get up when she’s ready to.”

Not even knowing just when the fuck Kitty had decided to climb up into the bed last night, or really even why, Gibbs frowned and silently vowed vengeance on the interloping artist before gently, so as not to get clawed, starting to remove the three cats that had taken up residence on his legs and chest.

“What time is it anyways?” Gibbs yawned, surprised to find that the sun had fully risen.

“A little past eight.” Blythe answered, glancing at her watch.

“Ugh.” Gibbs grimaced, petting the displaced cats in apology. “I hate sleeping so late.”

Not because he was concerned about keeping up a reasonable sleep schedule, as both his therapist and Ducky had suggested he do on numerous occasions, but simply due to the fact that he always felt sort of gross and lazy whenever he slept past the rising of the sun.

“I hate sleeping late, too.” Blythe confided. “I feel like I’m always waiting for Alice to wake up.”

“You don’t lie in bed just waiting for her to wake up, do you?” Gibbs frowned.

“Well, she doesn’t like me to start the day without her.” Blythe confessed, looking a bit somber. “But never mind that, Jethro. Let’s go and get some breakfast. I’m sure Teddy left us something in the kitchen.”

Sure enough, after they had both finally managed to extract themselves from the tangle of blankets and sheets they had inexplicably wrapped themselves up in during the night, and had carefully relocated one of the more stubborn members of the cat horde off of Gibbs’s legs for the third time in as many minutes, and gracelessly stumbled downstairs, there was a potful of coffee waiting for them alongside a boxful of gourmet bakery doughnuts and a little love note Teddy had left behind for Kitty before taking off to do whatever it was he did on weekend mornings.

“Damn, Kitty really knows how to pick them.” Gibbs appraised, after his first bite of a practically divine jelly doughnut.

“You got that right.” Blythe agreed, funneling half a long john into her mouth before chewing.

It was only after they had already downed three-fourths of a pot of coffee betwixt themselves, as well as wolfed down five out of the eight unfathomably delicious doughnuts without pause, that Kitty graced them her somehow beautiful, yet still bedraggled, appearance, her dark curls even wilder than usual and her beautiful eyes still lively despite being half-closed from very clear want of additional sleep.

“Did you two save me a bearclaw?” Kitty yawned, stumbling half-blind towards the coffee pot.

“We’re not monsters.” Blythe admonished. “We saved you two of them.”

Looking as if Blythe had just admitted to saving her a third of a million dollars, rather than just one fourth of a box of doughnuts, Kitty beamed brightly and snatched one of her preferred pastries up without any preamble, taking an impossibly large bite of it before washing it all down with a large swig of coffee.

“What time is it?” Kitty asked, still devouring her pastry. “Did Teddy leave already?”

“It’s almost nine, Kitty.” Blythe answered. “Teddy’s been gone for at least an hour now.”

“He left you a note though.” Gibbs contributed, passing it the folded paper over to Kitty.

Taking but a brief moment to read the short, but perfectly succinct, love note her fiancé had left her, Kitty flushed profusely with pleasure and hugged the square of paper to her chest, gushing like a schoolgirl given her very first kiss at recess. And even though Gibbs did, admittedly, feel a little twinge of jealousy at his friend’s good fortunate, he really, truly, was happy for her, as someone as sweet and kind as Kitty certainly deserved a man like Teddy.

“Kitty, I love you, but your hair is an absolutely wreck.” Blythe bluntly mentioned, reaching across the island to pull a small twig out of her hair. “I mean, what the hell, girl?”

“To be fair, that twig probably only got into my hair when you pulled me down with you yesterday.” Kitty pouted.

“That may be.” Blythe graciously allowed. “But you still might want to run a brush through it before we hit up Mable’s.”

“Don’t you think I can get away with just tossing it up in a bun?” Kitty asked, sounding dubious of the possibility even as she spoke.

“You’re halfway to having a goddamn afro.” Blythe denied.

“You’re probably right.” Kitty frowned, touching a hand to her hair and grimacing. “I’ll go and grab a brush.”

Relieved that Kitty had taken Blythe’s truthful, yet blunt, assessment of the status of her hair in the way it had been intended, which was helpful not hurtful, Gibbs felt himself relax and moved to refill Blythe’s mug with the remaining coffee before topping off his own with what little was left.

“Do either one of you know how to do a French braid?” Kitty asked, bounding back into the kitchen with an absurd amount of energy for someone who had just woken up completely hungover.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to brush dry curls.” Gibbs frowned, worried for the state of his friend’s beautiful hair.

“I don’t think I really have a choice today.” Kitty laughed. “I just found a ladybug crawling in my hair on my way upstairs.”

“A braid it is.” Gibbs decided, taking the comb from her hands.

Thankfully, for the sake of his ego, neither one of his friends asked him where he had learned to braid hair. For there was just no way in hell that Gibbs would ever willing admit, to anyone, at least not yet, that he once spent hours practicing various hairstyles on his china dolls.

“So, are you coming with us?” Kitty asked him, as he delicately worked to subdue her wild curls into a braid.

“To where?” Gibbs asked, struggling with a particularly stubborn strand.

“To Mable’s.” Kitty responded. “We’re getting our nails done.”

“You want me to come with you to get your nails done?” Gibbs scoffed, pretending to feel far more offended at the suggestion than he actually felt.

“You don’t have to paint yours.” Blythe pointed out. “You can just get a foot rub.”


End file.
